Children of Time, Ep 11: The Dying Detective
by Wholmes Productions
Summary: Always 1895... and with all of history happening at once, the world's best hope lies with Beth Lestrade, seeking to put Time back on track. But can she succeed against Professor Moriarty at the helm of Torchwood, and is it too late to save Sherlock Holmes? Part 2 of the season finale.
1. My Kingdom Come

**==Chapter One==**

 **My Kingdom Come**

 _"In some ways Watson is stronger than Holmes. That comes through his kindness, I suppose. He sees Holmes's weaknesses and tries to protect him from them. Look how Watson rants at him about cocaine. Watson is always on the lookout in order to save his friend from pain, indignity or destruction."_ _  
_— Jeremy Brett

Time had never felt so meaningless as it did now, or so _lifeless_. The music he had heard his whole life was silent for the first time. He couldn't do anything about it, either. He was stuck inside a temporal rift that didn't seem to want to disgorge him any time soon…

The TARDIS interrupted the Doctor's brooding, bursting into joyful trilling.

The Doctor lept to his feet, eyes alight. "What is it, old girl, eh? What's happened?"

The TARDIS _sang_ : a lullaby he'd heard before, in the spring of 1895…

The Doctor's mouth fell open. "Wha… oh, _good man!_ " He picked up the telepathic enhancer he'd been working on since he'd lost connection with Watson. "And just in time, too!" He attached a couple more wires from the TARDIS's console to the enhancer, closed both hands over the device, and winked up at the ceiling. "Wish me luck."

The TARDIS gave a concerned but encouraging twitter.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, and staggered at the abrupt change, as if he'd been wearing grimy glasses and suddenly looked through clean lenses. Only, the sensation was magnified a thousand-fold. So _many_ minds bombarded him with their unguarded thoughts that he had to back off for a minute, take a deep breath, and ease back in, directing his consciousness towards the States. _Nikola?_

He 'heard' a relieved sigh, and then Nikola Tesla's Serbian accent. _Doctor, thank God. We don't have long – communicating like this is extremely taxing._

 _Let me take the burden of it, then. Try drawing back into yourself a little… It's so good to hear from you again, Nikola._

Nikola smiled faintly, retreating a bit back towards his own body. _And you, Doctor—_ he sobered, the mental image he projected looking extremely grave— _although I wish it were under better circumstances._

The Doctor sobered with him. _So do I._ He shuddered as memories resurfaced—memories of seeing the future. _I saw this coming… I'd hoped—stupidly, I suppose—that I could avoid it. I didn't realise it would be this_ _ **massive**_ _, though. All of Time is dying._

Nikola reached out a comforting hand. _Don't lose heart, Doctor – there_ _is_ _still hope. Night may have fallen, but not all the lights have gone out—_ he smiled solemnly— _far from it._

 _You're more cryptic than the Visionary,_ the Doctor muttered despondently, _and believe me, that takes some doing._

The inventor shook his head, chuckling. _Hardly cryptic, Doctor—_ he nodded into the void surrounding them— _see for yourself._ His voice turned soft, reverent. _Those bright and shining Companions…_

The Time Lord shook his head in turn. _I've already seen it. I saw it before I met you. I watched the lights go out…_ He nearly choked on the rising lump in his throat. _So much suffering…_

Nikola sighed affectionately. _You said it yourself, Doctor: Time_ _ **can**_ _be rewritten._ His tone turned insistent. _Look again._

The Doctor frowned in confusion. _But I haven't said that…_ He couldn't imagine where Nikola could have gotten _that_ from. _You really ought to do counseling on the side, you know._

The human grinned. _Thank you, Doctor…_ _—_ his tone turned wry _—_ _but I have enough on my mind already._

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. _And what—or rather,_ _ **where**_ _—might your mind be, exactly? You're not putting as much psychic energy into this conversation as I initially thought._

Nikola looked exasperated, no doubt made worse by the strain of keeping his attention focussed in two different directions. That could really stretch a person thin. _Well, if you'd bother to look… and do get on with it if you're going to, I really can't stay connected for much longer!_

The Doctor sighed. _Tetchy…_ He focused on his Companions, trying to skim over their pain as much as possible to read their potential futures…

Out of nowhere, a powerful burst of energy shattered his view and the connection. _Nikola!_ But of course it was too late—Nikola was gone. A chill crept up on the Doctor in the painful aftermath of that psychic burst, and he shuddered, cold and alone in the dark.

It was another psychic presence… it reminded him of the Master, back in the UNIT days… only the Master had always held back, and this presence was holding nothing back.

The Doctor drew himself up. _I am the Doctor_ , he said with all the solemnity of his many centuries. _Who are you?_

The next moment, he realised just how vulnerable he was, stretched far, far out of his body. Ordinarily, that would not be an issue, but a powerful telepath could be dangerous to him. The other mind brushed gently along the edge of his own, a smoky chuckle following in its wake. _I know who you are. I_ _ **know**_ _you, Doctor._

The Doctor's eyes narrowing, he ignored the chill that just went down his spine. _Should make conversation easy on your end, then._

 _More to the point, I know your Companions. Your dear, sweet army doctor… and your fallen detective._

The Doctor tensed. _What have you done with them?_

 _Nothing that they themselves have not allowed,_ the other voice replied silkily. _Nothing that_ _ **you**_ _did not allow me to do with them…_

The Doctor's mouth went dry, mind racing in a thousand horrible possibilities. _What have you done?!_ Flashes of images bombarded him: Holmes and Watson severing their friendship, Watson being tortured, Holmes surrendering…

 _Do you wish to see where they are headed?_

The Doctor couldn't speak, silently weeping. _Complete ice in Holmes's eyes where once there'd been warmth… Watson curled up in despair, cold and alone… Beth lying lifeless in a pool of her own blood… Holmes growing into an unfeeling, merciless tyrant, the world at his feet and blood on his hands… Holmes standing over his former friend's body, the gun smoking in his hand…_

The Doctor jerked away from the vision, screaming.

When the voice returned, it was gentle. _How many have died in your name?_

Whimpering, shaking, the Doctor curled up on himself.

 _How many children on Gallifrey, Doctor? When Arcadia fell, when the Moment silenced them forever? The price had to be paid… and the price is exacted on your own children_.

 _Who are you?_ the Doctor said hoarsely.

 _Who do you think I am… Valeyard?_

The Doctor blanched. _That's not my name._

 _Oh, but it would be, if you ever escaped your… unique prison. And then… wouldn't you be so proud of your son for the path he's chosen?_

 _ **No!**_ _What have you done to Sherlock?_

 _He, too, has a debt to pay. Do not concern yourself with him, Valeyard: if he does not spend the rest of Eternity as the Devil, then he shall spend the rest of Eternity in Hell, you have my solemn promise_.

Then the Doctor knew. Because in all the universe, there was only one person who could hate Sherlock Holmes that much. _Moriarty,_ he breathed.

 _Farewell, Valeyard. Think on your sins. It is useless to think on your children, for they will be paying for those sins._

A new presence entered, old and warm and familiar… she cut the connection… and helped the Doctor to drift back into himself. When he came to on the floor, the nearest sharp object on the console looked far too inviting. He had left his Companions to sort through their troubles on their own, defenceless against any threats, and now they were all trapped.

He closed his eyes, curled up beside the console, and sobbed.

* * *

 _DO NOT TOUCH MY THIEF AGAIN… STAY AWAY…_

Moriarty came to with a gasp, head throbbing. Well… it would seem that the TARDIS could be as violently protective as the Doctor when given the opportunity. Wincing, he closed his eyes and lightly massaged his temples. His head felt as though it could explode. Fascinating, nevertheless—he hadn't known that the TARDIS could harm someone telepathically.

After a minute, he carefully disengaged his headgear. As powerful as his psyche had become, it didn't have the strength and endurance to interrupt such a remote telepathic conversation, sever the connection, and then hold his own long-distance conversation. A machine capable of telepathic enhancement had been lying in disuse in Torchwood's storage rooms for discovered alien artifacts for quite some time, but at last, it had made itself useful again. Sadly, this might also be the last time it was used: the machine appeared to have shorted out, no doubt due to the TARDIS's interference.

Oh, dear God, he needed something for the pain. He had a global conquest to orchestrate—he had no time for lying abed with a massive headache. It was necessary that he should remain alert at all times to all news from around the world. He could no longer see the future. Time was silent and still. He had managed without a Time sense in the past and he could live without it once more, but the loss was no less debilitating. He had lost something as natural to him now as breathing.

Of course, to achieve the greatest victories, sacrifices must be made, but this sacrifice… was indeed a bitter one to make. Yes, he had stopped aging, but that was almost not a consolation. The real comfort lay in the knowledge that he held all the cards in his hand.

He could no longer foresee his enemies' movements… but it was no longer necessary.

* * *

Dazed, Nikola drifted helplessly through the void. The stunning burst of psychic energy had all but paralysed him, he could barely move; he couldn't even sense where his body was from here, the swirling ether stretched away in every direction, and he was so _cold_... but gradually, he became aware of a distant voice, urgently calling his name as it drew nearer. It was a voice he knew well, the voice of a friend, and its very warmth was a beacon, guiding him home...

"Nikola?" The telepath could have wept to feel George's hand crushing his, any discomfort outweighed by the sheer relief of physical contact - he didn't know how long he'd been out of his body, but it had felt like an eternity.

"George..." Nikola's voice was a hoarse whisper, but he managed to open his eyes. He was lying on the couch in his workshop, a cushion under his aching head, although strangely, the part of him that hurt most was his ribs.

George was kneeling beside the couch, his friend's pale face even paler in the light of the hurricane lantern, reflecting the fear and concern that was radiating off him in waves. "Nikola, thank God! You scared the daylights out of me! I found you slumped over your workbench a minute ago, out cold, and then you started spasming just like my cousin Bertha!"

Nikola shuddered, remembering only too clearly the devastating shockwave that had torn him and the Doctor apart, without the least hint of warning. And the mind that had sent it... he'd sensed that malevolent intent only once before, when the Doctor had first found him after his transformation. Such _utter_ ruthlessness, that would dissect a living being down to its very molecules if that would achieve the desired end... could he blame his child self for screaming in terror? And now his worst fears had been confirmed...

He felt George let go of his hand and grasp his shoulders firmly, helping him to anchor himself more firmly in the present... dear God... the present... the river that normally flowed through the forefront of his consciousness had finally dwindled to a _millpond_.

"Nikola, what the hell happened?" George's voice was quieter now, but his tone brooked no evasions. "Is it anything to do with all this... this madness? There's even talk of the 'Mayflower' turning up at Cape Cod – not that anyone else has turned a hair!"

Nikola sat up slowly, blinking hard to keep himself focussed as he began reconstructing the mental defences which Moriarty's attack had turned to rubble. There was no time to waste, more than one life depended on him being strong enough for the fight ahead. "Well, George," he said grimly, "I highly recommend that you pack a carpet bag, then send a telegram to Pittsburgh. We have work to do."

* * *

Watson lay in bed in the solitary hospital room, propped up on pillows, his broken shoulder newly set and immobilised in a sling, teeth gritted against the grinding pain. He had stubbornly refused any form of painkiller from the Torchwood medics, God only knew what else it might contain – although if anyone decided to force the issue, there wouldn't be much he could do about it. He stiffened at the sound of the door opening, turning his head gingerly... _Oh. What a surprise._ He pointedly went back to staring up at the ceiling, in the hope that his unwelcome visitor would get the message.

Holmes reddened, taking a deep breath as he closed the door and moving forward hesitantly. There were no chairs, but he doubted the doctor would have invited him to sit down, anyhow. "Doctor..." He broke off, sighing – this was ridiculous. "Watson..."

Watson's heart gave a treacherous leap. For a moment, he could almost have believed... but he simply could not forget that the detective had just stood and watched the man he had once called _friend_ be tortured into unconsciousness, his only protest a half-hearted _murmur_. "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes tensed, stung by the coldness in Watson's voice, finally answering, "I... came to see how you were." And even that was a considerable risk; there was no telling who might be monitoring them, which made asking about Mrs. Watson impossible, assuming he even wished to.

Watson deliberately took his time in answering, relishing Holmes's obvious discomfort. "Quite well, actually, all things considered. Forgive my awkwardness – I hadn't thought you would have cared."

Holmes's face grew redder still – he wasn't certain whether because of anger or embarassment. "And why is that: because of my _performance_ when you were brought here? One does not bleed in front of wolves, Doctor!" Surely Watson couldn't truly have believed... Moriarty had certainly not been deceived for a moment.

Watson finally deigned to turn his head again, the fresh twinges of pain from that slight movement only serving to fuel his indignation. "That alone I could understand, Holmes! But may I remind you that we... that I was already no longer welcome at Baker Street? Or did that fact slip your mind in the midst of your investigation?" At least Holmes seemed to understand that, miraculously, Moriarty didn't know about Sally – he wouldn't have hesitated to use her as a bargaining chip otherwise – and for his part, Watson would do his damnedest to keep the bastard ignorant!

Holmes glared back, keeping from raising his voice with difficulty. "Whatever issues lie between us, Doctor, I never wished for you to become entangled in _this_! I knew Moriarty would attempt to use you as emotional leverage against me – just as he did with Beth..." He cut himself off hastily, no sense in burdening Watson with any of that – in fact, the less he knew, the better.

Watson's ears pricked, anger momentarily overtaken by concern. "Is it true that Moran is pursuing her?" The Colonel had certainly been conspicuously absent during his own interview with Moriarty... and that shattered window, the study covered in shards of glass, Moriarty and Holmes _both_ sporting cuts to their faces and clothing... Watson hardly dared speculate on what happened before his arrival, but there had clearly been some kind of explosion!

Holmes nodded curtly, not trusting himself to speak. Seeing Moran holding the gun to Beth's head... If there had been a moment in his life when he had been more terrified, he couldn't immediately remember it, and little wonder – Beth's survival was key to setting Time back on track, Holmes was certain of it, she _could not_ be allowed to come to harm.

Watson shivered. He could well remember lying in wait in the dark of Camden House, seeing the unholy delight in the Colonel's face as he took aim at Holmes's silhouette in the sitting room window. "How?" His voice had become a hoarse whisper. "How did Moriarty even know of her?"

Holmes scowled at the floor, answering through gritted teeth, "The stupid girl followed me." Come to think of it, he had felt the carriage give an odd lurch as they'd turned out of Baker Street – could Beth have been stowing away on the back for the whole journey? "Moran caught her trying to spy on Moriarty and I – and Moriarty could sense she was out of her time."

Watson felt the blood draining further from his face. "'Sense'... not 'deduce'. What has really happened to him? And, for heaven's sakes, why should it concern him if Beth is out of her time?"

It was Holmes's turn to shiver. "When Moriarty fell through the Rift... he saw something the human mind was never meant to witness: the whole of Time and Space. _All_ of it..."

Watson's eyes were wide with horror. "Good God... and he survived that..." Survived with an 'adverse effect' to his health... one that was serious enough to drive the man to halt Time itself.

Holmes nodded grimly. "I do not know how even he was not driven mad by such an experience… but instead it somehow changed him, gave him the ability to sense Time as the Doctor can. And there is more... He encountered some kind of phenomenon which caused his aging process to reverse itself, before finally being ejected from the Cardiff Rift – in 1869."

"What?!" Oh, dear heaven... Nikola's machine... so _that_ was why Torchwood had commissioned it! And now... now the Doctor was trapped in the Rift himself... Watson closed his eyes, whispering, "Dear God... how are we ever to get ourselves out of this?"

Holmes's chest was tight. No regrets, he told himself sternly, this was for the best – if Watson thought for a moment that there _was_ a 'we', he might well do something fatally stupid. "You... lost consciousness before the crucial part of the interview, Doctor."

Watson's eyes flew open again, wincing involuntarily at the flash of remembered pain. "The crucial part?"

"Moriarty wishes more from Frozen Time than mere immortality..." Holmes took a deep breath. "He desires... me, as his... protégé. A simple enough bargain..." He couldn't keep the note of distaste from his voice. "Your safety, in return for my surrender."

"That _monster_!" Watson could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Holmes, tell me you did not accept such a... such an evil proposition!" The detective's eloquent silence sent a chill down his spine. "Tell me you didn't..."

Holmes spread his hands helplessly. "What would you have had me do, Doctor? Refuse and let his men continue to break you, one bone at a time?" Surely Watson _couldn't_ think him that heartless!

"Yes! A thousand times, yes! Holmes, I would face a thousand Maiwands if I knew it would keep you safe!"

" _That_ is exactly what I have achieved, Doctor!" Holmes cut in angrily. "If I had not agreed to Moriarty's terms, both of us would be in your situation at this very moment, with much worse in store..."

"There is a difference between physical and spiritual harm, Holmes! You've quite literally sold your soul to the Devil! How can you think I would ever want that?" _Why_ couldn't the mad fool see what was already happening to him? Moriarty had chosen his moment so very well... "How am I to spend the rest of… my life… or eternity… or… whatever it might be, knowing that my dearest friend has been twisted into his own worst enemy on my account?!"

Holmes stared at him, speechless for a long moment. "I see..." he managed at last. "So you would rather I had stood watching him tear you apart, inch by inch, your screams as he destroyed you echoing in my ears for the rest of _my_ life?" It had been a terribly bitter pill to swallow, realising that no amount of bargaining would have saved Watson from this first injury – but knowing that wouldn't keep the memory at bay... or the nightmares. "Perhaps _you_ could have endured that, _Major_ Watson, but _I_ could not – not when I had the chance to prevent it!"

Watson listened with mouth agape, horror swiftly burned away by his returning fury. "Ah, so is this truly about _me_ , or is it about _yourself_ , Holmes – as usual? Are we truly speaking of your concern for my wellbeing, or your own selfishness?"

Holmes's own face was turning scarlet. "So that is how you still think of me..." Of course it was, he was a fool to have expected the least shred of gratitude from the self-righteous prig. He bowed stiffly. "Forgive me, Doctor. I can see you are very tired, and I have taken up too much of your valuable time already. Perhaps when you have rested, you might think a little more kindly of me – or not, it makes little difference either way." It really didn't matter what Watson thought about him anymore, it wasn't as if they were still friends.

Watson's eyes blazed. "Very well, _Mr._ Holmes. You told me before that you'd rather be a brain without a heart. Do us both a favour, and leave what little humanity you have left behind you here. You shan't be needing it out there – _he'll_ see to that. The sooner you stop caring, the sooner you'll be free of me and any stain upon your conscience." With Moriarty for a mentor, it would take Holmes no time at all to erase everyone he had ever cared about from that brain attic of his.

The pure loathing in the doctor's face made Holmes feel sicker than when he'd heard Watson's bones break under the agents' hands. "As you wish..." he whispered. "Goodbye, Dr. Watson."

Watson felt his insides twist at the shock in Holmes's eyes, the detective's face ashen as he turned to leave – perhaps for the last time... For the love of God, how had it come to this, why couldn't the stubborn idiot just _listen_? "Don't let Beth die," he whispered abruptly. "Save, at least, a piece of your soul for her sake."

Holmes halted, but didn't turn as he answered bitterly, "As you said, Doctor... my soul now belongs to the Devil – you shall have to make that request of its new owner." And Watson would have to learn to live with the knowledge that the contract which had been signed with Holmes's blood was written in his own.

Watson stared after Holmes as he walked out, the sound of the door closing behind him falling on the doctor's ears like a thunderclap. "Dear God... what have I done?!"

* * *

 **Sky:** Okay... we know, it's really cruel to everybody. And we're sorry. We are so, so sorry. But this is the story that was demanding to be told. We worked far, _far_ more on these last four episodes than probably the rest of the season combined. This is our masterpiece, and we promise this journey will be worth it in the end.

Please review!


	2. The Nature of Love

**==Chapter Two==**

 **The Nature of Love**

Field report, Torchwood

 _\- Resurrected European and Asian royalty laying claim to thrones of respective countries, civil war widespread. Exceptions: Switzerland, France, Egypt, Italy._

 _\- No new intelligence from Switzerland, all borders closed, guard doubled._

 _\- Emperor Bonaparte executed all sixteen Louis, Joan of Arc appointed general. Peasants' revolution swiftly eliminating last few aristocrats. Paris agent informed of new assignment._

 _\- Native uprising in Middle East, mass migration of British colonials to Egypt. Pharaohs' Council accepting immigrants, granting work permits for construction of new monuments._

 _\- Julius Caesar and Constantine achieved fragile alliance between Vatican and Emperors' Pantheon after Caligula's assassination. Italian scientists upgrading technology at unprecedented speed, recommend recruitment for_ _Institute_ _._

* * *

A silky voice came from behind Holmes as he turned away from Watson's door. "I gather that Dr. Watson was rather less than thrilled with your news, my dear Holmes."

Holmes came to an abrupt halt, though he didn't turn. "I imagine you already know the answer, sir."

"Such a pity." Moriarty's tone was largely sympathetic, but Holmes could still hear the faint undertone of amusement. "You make the greatest sacrifice a man can make, and he has no gratitude for it."

"Pity… gratitude..." Holmes managed to answer slowly, the words heavy in his mouth as he forced them out. "You bandy those terms about so easily, Moriarty, yet with how much understanding?"

He heard Moriarty draw nearer, the hair on his neck raising as he sensed the man halting just behind his left shoulder. "I may not be able to feel such sentiments myself, Holmes, but that does not mean that I cannot understand how they work. As a man who has never been in love may yet have some idea of the nature of it..."

Holmes shrugged, in no mood whatever for a verbal fencing match. "Was there some purpose to your presence here, my dear sir, besides spying on me?"

"How can one spy on one's own possession?" Moriarty's half-smile as he moved into Holmes's view told the detective that he'd noted the involuntary flinch. "I said that there are many lessons you must learn."

Holmes made no attempt to keep his lip from curling. "Supervise, then, if you prefer."

Moriarty continued as if he hadn't heard. "I did not say, however, that I should give you a lengthy amount of time in which to find a way out."

Holmes arched a chilly eyebrow. "As I said earlier, Moriarty: the next move is yours. What more do you require? You have given me your word as a gentleman that the doctor shall not be harmed while I co-operate. Therefore it behoves me to honour our... agreement." As if he had truly had any choice in the matter...

Moriarty favoured him with an ironic smile. "Forgive me if the intervening years since our last encounter have made me a trifle... shall we say, paranoid? Perhaps the next move was not so much mine as it was Watson's. I freely confess that I thought him to be a loyal friend... and yet he seems to have washed his hands of you entirely. You are the genius pupil, Holmes. Tell _me_ what that says of the nature of friendship."

Holmes shrugged – he could only hope his face wasn't betraying his true feelings on the subject. "Why should I speak to you, sir, of matters of which you have no comprehension? Choose a subject which we can debate as equals, I implore you."

Moriarty's smile vanished, his voice turning to granite once more. "I implore _you_ , Holmes, to remember your position. Answer the question."

Holmes's lips tightened, his response one of acidic politeness, "I suppose the nature of friendship depends on the nature of one's friends..." His voice grew heavy with irony; "who are, after all, only human."

Moriarty laughed coldly as he folded his arms. "That won't do, Holmes. After all, you have had the privilege of making extraterrestrial acquaintances – I am afraid that I cannot claim the same. One acquaintance, in particular, I should not like to claim at all."

Holmes's lips twitched, pointedly ignoring the less-than-subtle dig. "You would be amazed, my dear Professor, at how pervasive so-called _human_ nature truly is."

"My dear Holmes, I have seen 'human nature' – human and non-human – stretch to the limits of the universe..." Moriarty's eyes had become disturbingly distant. "All the feuds, all the wars that nature has produced. I have seen an entire race of magnificent telepaths enslaved by mankind and sold like cattle throughout the galaxies. I have seen two armies fight each other for tens of thousands of years – England and France on a grand scale." He refocused abruptly on Holmes's face. "Perhaps the question is: do _you_ know how pervasive human nature is?"

Holmes inclined his head mockingly, trying to ignore the chill crawling up his spine. Even if he was trapped with his old enemy for – God forbid! – all eternity, he would _never_ get used to Moriarty having the exact same faraway look in his eyes as the Doctor. "Clearly, I must bow to your expertise in this case, my dear sir. By all means, enlighten me."

Moriarty closed his eyes, tone becoming reflective. "Several decades from now, there should have been a man, a brilliant man, who would say that mankind should not go out into the stars. That if there were extraterrestrial life, man would taint it." He opened his eyes again, smiled slowly. "Were Time to... thaw... that prediction would come to pass as surely as if that man were a prophet. Mankind would not be a blessing to its fellow races, Holmes, it would be a curse. Four 'great and bountiful human empires' – but of course, for an empire to exist, one must first conquer... and how many innocent races do you suppose our own race crushed?"

"Countless, I should imagine," Holmes replied as dryly as he could manage. "Earth's history is already full of such instances."

"And yet ours is a race whose virtues the Doctor professes to uphold..." Moriarty's smile had evolved into a smirk. "Perhaps he sees a reflection of himself in us. Ruthless and uncaring, in the end."

Holmes's brow creased. "Yet the qualities he claims to admire most are courage and compassion."

"Rule One," Moriarty answered coolly, "the Doctor lies." At Holmes's questioning look, he continued: "A rite of passage, if you will, for his companions. Learning that he _will_ tell them any number of lies if it suits him, and then moving on with that knowledge. He certainly never told you the full truth of the Time War, and what else is a half-truth but a lie?"

A slow, grudging nod was Holmes's only response.

"You still do not believe that, do you? That your precious Time Lord is guilty of genocide."

The dry amusement in Moriarty's voice only added to Holmes's growing inner turmoil, recalling the chilling hints which the Doctor had dropped on their first adventure together. "'If you only knew...'" he whispered. "Dear God, is _that_ what he meant?" He glanced over to find Moriarty eyeing him with undisguised interest. "He told me... his world was gone, destroyed – but he would not say how... or who..."

"Unsurprising. He wanted you to stay with him – he would never have told you. He once told the Time Lord Council that it took thousands of years for a society to become truly corrupt." Moriarty shook his head. "How ironic that such a process should have happened to him."

Holmes found himself nodding slowly. "He has said on more than one occasion that he believes such longevity is a curse." And the Time Lord had barely survived his first millennium... "He most envies us our mortality."

"I am certain he does. He has paid a heavy price for the path he chose – perhaps not heavy enough..."

Holmes frowned. "I have been a witness to his pain, sir. His regrets run deeper than any human could comprehend." Why would even Moriarty wish for the Doctor to suffer further?

"What is his regret worth to his countless victims?" Moriarty's voice was steely, relentless. "The family he murdered, the Companions whose lives he destroyed, the planet he wiped out, the twenty-thousand humans of Pompeii? When desperate, the Doctor is not merely dangerous, but utterly ruthless. I would venture to say that you know nothing of the Valeyard."

Holmes didn't trust himself to speak, face pale. He'd _been_ to Pompeii while on hiatus, seen the devastation the volcano had wrought with his own eyes. The Doctor could _never_... never...

"The incarnation of the Doctor who has already existed and yet has not... ah, the fickle nature of time travel! The Doctor has suicidal tendencies at times, you are aware of this. What you likely do not know is that he is not merely attempting to escape his past, but his future as well."

"His future..." Holmes's voice was little more than a whisper.

"The Valeyard. A creature pulled into being from between the Doctor's twelfth and last incarnations by the Time Lord Council. The darkest aspects of the Doctor, given flesh and form. Even his late archenemy, the Master, feared the Valeyard." Moriarty's smile was decidedly grim. "Forgive me for attempting to avoid that version of the Doctor ever coming into being at all."

Holmes shook his head, but the horrifying mental image Moriarty had conjured refused to be dislodged. "That future is only one possibility among many, Professor. If the Doctor has seen that shadow and is attempting to avoid it…"

Moriarty cut him off sharply. "Then the Doctor has not explained to you the nature of Time as thoroughly as I thought he had. Once you see your future, you cannot change it – doing so would create a paradox."

The detective's eyes widened in horror as he listened. "Do you mean to tell me... the Doctor knows that version of himself _must_ come to pass? That the Valeyard's existence is a Fixed Point?"

Moriarty sighed. "Holmes, your inexplicable naivete is beginning to give me a headache. The Valeyard is indeed a Fixed Point in Time. The Doctor's attempts to avoid that Point could well have broken Time without your own efforts in that area. At least within the Cardiff Rift, the effects would be… blanketed."

"And yet you wished for Time to broken... but on your own terms... with the Doctor powerless to intervene." Holmes forced a mirthless smile. "I suppose congratulations are in order, my dear sir."

Moriarty nodded graciously, eyes glittering. "I could not have done so without you, my dear Holmes."

Holmes's smile vanished. "You're too kind, Professor," he responded coldly. "Think nothing of it."

He had to grudgingly admire his host's restraint – any other man might have indulged in an exultant laugh, but Moriarty merely smiled faintly, studying his nails. "I'm afraid that is rather beyond me at present. The very idea of it, let alone the reality, is simply magnificent. The Doctor's interference in your life rendered you unable to fulfill that Fixed Point. As I said before, he always ensures his own destruction… and that of those around him."

"He's certainly admitted that freely enough..." Holmes muttered without thinking.

"Yet you did not listen?" Moriarty shook his head again, this time in exasperation. "Holmes, your sense of self-preservation is utterly appalling." Holmes's lips twitched at that – he certainly couldn't fault the observation. "Now to his latest tally, he can add yourself, Dr. Watson, and the girl."

Holmes made no answer, although he knew the Professor must have seen the flicker of guilt... concern that crossed his face. Beth had been given such a slim head start... and Moran's dogged patience meant that Holmes could derive no comfort from the fact that he had heard nothing more of either since then. Of course, the girl could do no better than to make for Whitehall – the detective had no doubt that Mycroft would offer whatever assistance lay in his power – but there was no guarantee that Beth would even think to do so!

"Of course, you yourself must share the blame in the girl's case: she came with the Doctor because of you, after all… And then her concern for you overrode all thought of self-preservation – had she not done so, I should not have sensed her so strongly."

"That is no fault of mine," Holmes replied sharply. "The foolish child disobeyed my orders." He wasn't certain whether he felt more angry or relieved about that – and how she had even known about his abduction still remained a mystery.

Moriarty tutted, patently amused. "Oh, it is every bit your fault, Sherlock Holmes. By the simple fact of who you are, you drew her to you, and she could not stay away, no matter how strict the order. Moreover, you allowed her to stay with you up until that point – you obviously did not even attempt to drive her away before then."

Holmes gave Moriarty the coldest stare he could manage. "Lack of discouragement is not the same as encouragement. I never asked for her… admiration."

"'Admiration'..." Moriarty returned Holmes a knowing smile. "Lack of discouragement does indeed equal encouragement, I'm afraid, especially in... admirers. Time is a cruel mistress, but love must be the cruelest of all."

Holmes shrugged, trying not to grit his teeth. "As you say, sir… I am afraid my knowledge of such matters is decidedly lacking." And whatever _respect_ he had for the girl's finer qualities was certainly no one else's concern.

Moriarty arched an admonishing eyebrow. "Shall you insist upon hiding behind that excuse forever, Holmes? I may have no experience in matters of the heart myself, but I have made it a point to understand how they work. Your ostensible lack of understanding is to your own detriment."

Holmes echoed the eyebrow, resisting the urge to sigh. "Your concern for the quality of my education is truly touching, my dear Professor." The detective spread his hands in seeming humility – if he were forced to endure a lecture, he might at least glean valuable insights into the mind of his... teacher. "Consider me a blank slate, and proceed with the lesson."

* * *

 _(Scene rating: V)_

Beth had been all around London for what must have amounted to several hours now, though the day never grew lighter. She didn't doubt for one minute that Colonel Moran was after her—he was Moriarty's assassin as well as right hand man, after all. She didn't really let herself stop to think about it all, even when gulping down coffee and some bread on the little bit of money that Mrs. Hudson had given her yesterday for emergencies. It was as if she had fallen into a nightmare, and she couldn't wake up. Professor Moriarty was still alive and held a captive Sherlock Holmes, and she was running for her life from an ex-military officer and assassin.

She needed help, and she needed more than the Watsons could provide, if they were even still all right. She didn't know. She'd caught a glimpse of an Irregular as she ran from Torchwood, but she hadn't come across any of the rest of the boys since.

Slipping into the offices at Whitehall wasn't quite as easy as slipping into Torchwood had been. That was merely because she was ready to fall asleep standing up, and she couldn't remember her muscles ever being in as much pain as they were now. But at last, she found Mycroft Holmes's office and rapped softly on the door.

"Enter," a voice called, sounding mildly irritated.

She took a deep breath, opened the door, and slipped inside. Mycroft Holmes sat at an ornate desk covered with stacks of paper and files in a room mostly devoid of personal possessions but still left no doubt as to the wealth of its occupant. Mycroft himself truly was a large man in height and weight, but he did share his brother's dark hair, grey eyes, hooked nose, and high cheekbones. If he had been a bit thinner, Beth thought she might have called him handsome, favouring Mark Gatiss a little more than Charles Gray. The British government, condensed into one man, one of the most brilliant men in the world and Sherlock's older brother.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," she said respectfully.

His eyes widened ever so slightly as he studied her, his piercing gaze no doubt taking in details that she was unaware of and parsing them for meaning. He rose with effort and nodded politely, though possibly with a hint of uncertainty. She wasn't sure. "Miss. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Beth wondered just how much he'd already deduced about her. She took another deep breath, heart still beating wildly. "My name is Elizabeth Lestrade," she said as evenly as she could manage, "and I'm here on your brother's account."

He arched a very Holmesian eyebrow. "Are you certain you have come to the right person, Miss Lestrade? I hesitate to contradict a relative of the Chief Inspector, but up until this moment I was unaware that I even possessed a brother, or indeed any sort of sibling."

She stared, mind reeling. It must be an effect of Time breaking… it was messing severely with Reality… "Oh, zed," she said in a small voice. She really wanted to wake up now, but she couldn't afford the luxury of waiting for someone else to make it right. As far as she knew, she might be it. "All right, never mind that. I'm here because of the Bruce-Partington plans."

Mycroft's expression didn't change, but cautious hope glinted in his eyes. "What of them?" he said evenly. Looking concerned, he nodded at a chair before the desk. "And pray be seated, Miss Lestrade, you look worn to a thread."

She nodded and walked forward, sitting cautiously. If she relaxed, she'd collapse. "Thank you." She sighed. "I know who has the missing plans, and I believe they're already in Paris by now, if not further than that."

His eyes widened, voice turning sharp. "Who?"

"A German, Oberstein. He _was_ living at 13 Caulfield Gardens, but I believe he fled…" _Oh, zed, how am I supposed to describe Time now if it's broken?_ "Quite some while ago."

Mycroft frowned deeply. "Yes, that name is most familiar—Oberstein is one of the few with the expertise and sheer nerve to handle so big an affair. And I'm afraid that recovering the plans from him will be immensely difficult."

Beth leaned forward. "I can go after him. I only need the money and transportation to get to Paris." She'd never done something so big on her own before, but there was a first time for everything. At some point, Sherlock must have gone from small cases to a situation he wasn't sure he could handle, and if he could do it, so could she.

Mycroft, however, looked at her as if she was mad. "My dear Miss Lestrade, that is entirely out of the question! Assuming I were foolhardy enough to entrust such a task to such a young lady, have you any idea of what stands in your way?"

Of course, she hadn't quite thought about that yet: if Reality was truly fracturing, then anything could be happening on the other side of the Channel—for that matter, anything could be happening in England. But she decided to ignore that for the moment, hoping that Mycroft would eventually elaborate without her asking. She lifted her chin, eyes steely, voice firm. _Fake it 'til you make it_. "Mr. Holmes, I am entirely able to look after myself and do things that no one else—such as certain German spies—would think a young woman capable of."

Mycroft seemed taken aback by that, studying her closely for a long moment. "This man you believe to be my brother," he said softly, "what is his name?"

Her breath caught—she hadn't expected that question, and now a terrible idea was forming in her mind. _Please let me be wrong_. "Sherlock," she said softly, not entirely keeping all traces of affection out of her voice.

Mycroft almost seemed to gasp softly, looking more than a little shaken. Beth had a sinking feeling that she was dead-on. After a moment, he crossed over to the sideboard and poured two small glasses of… she guessed brandy. He handed one to her, then sat heavily back down behind his desk. He pulled a folder from one of the stacks on his desk—seemingly at random, but she didn't doubt he had quite a deliberate sorting system—and opened it to reveal typewritten papers and an attached photograph. He passed the file to her—it was Oberstein.

"The key ports," he said gravely, "on either coast are under constant siege from numerous armies—mostly Elizabeth's and Bonaparte's fleets. Attempting to cross the Channel via any of them would be suicide at this juncture. If you wish to reach France alive, your best chance is to seek passage from Newhaven."

She couldn't help paling slightly. She'd witnessed some very anachronistic elements in getting here, but this was even worse than she'd imagined. Feeling as though she actually could use the alcohol now, she knocked back the brandy and coughed as it seared her throat. Zed, and Sherlock and Jeremy had gotten _drunk_ on this stuff? How could they handle that much of it?! She pulled herself together and looked Mycroft in the eye, hoping she looked far more confident than she felt. "Just give me the means to get there," she said quietly, "and I'll handle the rest."

He pressed a spot on the desk's scrollwork, and a hidden drawer popped open, from which he took a small leather pouch. Rising again, he tossed the pouch onto the desk before Beth, and it sounded like a bag of marbles when it landed. She could think of only one valuable thing that could make a noise like that. She slowly took the bag, not opening it, waiting for her host to speak again.

Mycroft walked over to a bellpull and tugged at it. A few seconds later, a young man appeared, and they had a quiet word with each other. She wished she could understand what they were saying, but they were speaking far too softly. When the underling disappeared, Mycroft returned to his desk, picked up his glass, and eyed Beth thoughtfully.

She watched, wondering what was going on in that brilliant mind, still more what was in his heart. He'd reacted at hearing his brother's name.

"You defy all logic, Miss Lestrade. I don't pretend to understand anything about you, except for one: you love a man who was never born—" he smiled sadly—"but perhaps should have been."

Tears springing to her eyes, her breath caught again, and her chest hurt sharply.

He half turned to the window, raising his glass.

There was a hiss of air, a whizzing sound, and Mycroft's head half-exploded.

Beth screamed, heart skipping a beat, bile surging up her throat, but fire flooding her. She turned, whipping out her revolver, caught sight of Moran behind her, and fired. Not waiting to see where the bullet went, she ran and plunged through the window, hitting the ground hard in a shower of broken glass and stumbling as she pushed herself up and ran for the nearest alley.

She began to sob and tried to stifle it only for a moment before letting herself cry.

* * *

 **Ria:** *whimpers* We _hated_ doing this, but it made complete sense from Torchwood's perspective, eliminating the one person in Whitehall who might well figure out what was going on, even without remembering life before Frozen Time – or having a brother… ='( *hugs Sherlock*

 **Sky:** *makes it a Sherlock sandwich* Poor Mycroft... and poor Beth. And poor Watson! Golly!  
I hope you all aren't getting _too_ depressed, because there _will_ be lighter spots soon. The two of us love and hate torturing our characters as much as the next fanfic author, but writing constant heavy angst is as rough on us as it is on our readers, and we're not _that_ masochistic!

Please review!


	3. At Skyfall

**==Chapter 3==**

 **At Skyfall**

Civil report – Torchwood

 _\- Most English royalty now at Buckingham Palace, uneasy truce resides, thanks to leadership of William I._

 _\- Guy Fawkes arrested in second attempt to blow up Houses of Parliament. Conspirators under guard at Windsor until sentence decided, ongoing debate as to whether act was treason._

 _\- British Authors' Guild founded by Charles Dickens, has garnered enthusiastic support from writing community, preventing further destruction of valuable manuscripts by Oliver Cromwell and associates._

* * *

"Good evening, Dr. Watson."

"Moriarty." Watson couldn't quite disguise the flicker of loathing that crossed his face at the appearance of his visitor, the first one he'd had in God only knew how long, besides the guards. Despite his best efforts, he'd been drugged somehow – most likely his food – and awoken in these new quarters. The single room was comfortable, if plain, with adequate facilities, but there were no windows in the bare walls, and what little could be seen of the outside corridor when the door was unbolted gave him no clue as to where he was now – not that he'd known to begin with. "Forgive me if I don't shake hands."

Moriarty's genial smile became sympathetic, nodding at Watson's shoulder. "I am informed that it should heal well enough. There was nothing personal about it, you understand – merely business."

Watson nodded back grimly from his seat at the table. He'd pushed himself to get back on his feet as soon as he could – remaining in bed would fool no one, and he meant to at least try to keep in a positive frame of mind. "And what purpose do you have with me on this occasion: business or pleasure?"

Moriarty's voice became a purr. "Oh, I expect the pleasure to be all yours, my dear Doctor. You see, I cannot allow Holmes to visit you any more, but I can at least allow you to hear from him... quite literally." He reached into his coat pocket and Watson's eyes widened in horrified recognition – he should have known Sally's phone would be found on him eventually, _why_ hadn't he tried to get rid of it earlier?

"Ah, the wonders of future technology..." The Professor pressed a button, and a recording began to play, two very familiar voices:

" _I freely confess that I thought him to be a loyal friend... and yet he seems to have washed his hands of you entirely. You are the genius pupil, Holmes. Tell_ _ **me**_ _what that says of the nature of friendship."_

" _I suppose the nature of friendship depends on the nature of one's friends..."_ The bitterness in Holmes's voice sent a chill down Watson's spine; _"...who are, after all, only human."_

A moment's pause, then:

" _Rule One: the Doctor lies."_

" _He told me... his world was gone, destroyed – but he would not say how... or who..."_

A paling Watson set his jaw, free fist clenched tight. "You have made your point, _sir_. Feel free to leave at any time."

Moriarty didn't respond, a slow smile spreading as the recording continued:

" _Unsurprising. He wanted you to stay with him – he would never have told you. He once told the Time Lord Council that it took thousands of years for a society to become truly corrupt. How ironic that such a process should have happened to him. The Doctor's attempts to avoid that Point could well have broken Time without your own efforts in that area. At least within the Cardiff Rift, the effects would be… blanketed."_

" _And yet you wished for Time to broken... but on your own terms... with the Doctor powerless to intervene. I suppose congratulations are in order, my dear sir."_

" _I could not have done so without you, my dear Holmes."_

" _You're too kind, Professor. Think nothing of it."_

Watson's hand flew to his mouth, starting to feel sick. "No..." he whispered. Surely Holmes would _never_... but the glitter in Moriarty's eyes said otherwise...

" _I'm afraid that is rather beyond me at present. The very idea of it, let alone the reality, is simply magnificent. The Doctor's interference in your life rendered you unable to fulfill that Fixed Point. As I said before, he always ensures his own destruction… and that of those around him. Of course, you yourself must share the blame in the girl's case: she came with the Doctor because of you, after all… And then her concern for you overrode all thought of self-preservation – had she not done so, I should not have sensed her so strongly."_

" _That is no fault of mine."_ Watson almost started at the sharpness of Holmes's reply. _"The foolish child disobeyed my orders."_

" _Oh, it is every bit your fault, Sherlock Holmes. By the simple fact of who you are, you drew her to you, and she could not stay away, no matter how strict the order. Moreover, you allowed her to stay with you up until that point – you obviously did not even atttempt to drive her away before then."_

" _Lack of discouragement is not the same as encouragement. I never asked for her… admiration."_

"' _Admiration'..."_ Moriarty's smile was audible. _"Lack of discouragement does indeed equal encouragement, I'm afraid, especially in... admirers. Time is a cruel mistress, but love must be the cruelest of all."_

"Stop..." Watson could hardly choke out the words. "Stop it!"

" _As you say, sir… I am afraid my knowledge of such matters is decidedly lacking."_

" _Shall you insist upon hiding behind that excuse forever, Holmes? I may have no experience in matters of the heart myself, but I have made it a point to understand how they work. Your ostensible lack of understanding is to your own detriment."_

" _Your concern for the quality of my education is truly touching, my dear Professor. Consider me a blank slate, and proceed with the lesson."_

Eyes blazing, Watson surged up out of his chair and reached for Moriarty's throat... but the Professor was younger now and in much better shape than his assailant, easily bringing him to the ground by his injured arm. Watson gasped and blanched white as Moriarty gave his shoulder an extra wrench for good measure, murmuring, "That was entirely unnecessary, Doctor."

"You can talk, you sick monster..." Watson managed to grate through the pain.

"My dear Watson... Please understand: I no longer make any secret of who and what I am. If Sherlock Holmes is following me into Hell, he is doing so with both eyes wide open."

"No!"

Moriarty leaned down further, murmuring in Watson's ear, "He knows full well that I intend to have the girl killed, and yet he is willing that I should reshape him however I see fit..."

"Because of me..." Watson choked, misery and agony thick in his throat. Should he have forced Moriarty to kill him then, would that have been kinder...?

"Because of you, Doctor: his weakest point. Because without Dr. Watson... you no longer have the Great Detective..."

"No..." Watson made himself say the words – whatever happened, he would be damned if he let the Professor win this round so easily! Taking a deep breath, he continued quietly, scornfully, "Without Sherlock Holmes... there's no James Moriarty – how pathetic is that?"

Moriarty stood at last, releasing his prisoner and seating himself at the table. "We are speaking of _your_ friendship, Doctor. Suppose you tell me."

Watson slowly, painfully raised himself to a kneeling position, lip curling. "Go to Hell…"

Moriarty chuckled. "My dear Watson… we are already there. And it is a Hell that _you_ and Holmes made, together…"

"Perhaps," Watson answered coldly as he finally levered himself upright and back into his own chair – it might be a pyrrhic victory at best, but he would take what he could get. "However, we cannot claim all the glory, my _dear_ Moriarty. And some day – or whatever you care to call it – this new empire of yours will fall, count on it. And I look forward to spitting on your grave when it does."

Moriarty's cruel smile widened. "You shall be waiting a very long time to do so. Shall we say... all of eternity?"

Watson's voice could have frozen lava. "I assure you, sir, it shall be worth the wait. Get out."

Moriarty continued as if he hadn't heard. "Moran will kill the girl, and is allowed to do so as viciously as he sees fit. The Sherlock Holmes _you_ know will entirely cease to exist. And you, my dear Watson, shall remain here, unable to stop any of it, until I am certain you have fulfilled your purpose."

Watson gave him a look of pure contempt. "And then?" But he could already deduce the answer.

Moriarty's eyes gleamed. "Your... growing horror... at Holmes's development shall be most useful. And then… Holmes shall kill you, himself."

Watson stiffened, glaring daggers. "To borrow a phrase, sir: you shall be waiting a very long time… all of eternity, in fact."

"Oh, I think not." Watson felt the hair rise on the back of his neck at the unholy delight in Moriarty's expression. "In fact, I think it shall not be long, at all. Holmes no longer has you or the Doctor or anyone to whom he can anchor himself. He is _drowning_ , Watson. I could not have asked for a more pliable protégé." The doctor couldn't keep his face from twisting in agony – Moriarty's gloating words were all too believable. "When next we meet, I expect to have nothing but good news for myself. However, I must advise you against further attacks. Better for yourself that you live out the rest of your limited time in peace."

"When next we meet, _sir_ ," Watson growled, "you had best be well-armed." If these chairs weren't bolted to the floor...

"My dear Doctor, is this appalling lack of self-preservation a side effect of heroism? I wonder that you have survived as long as you have."

Watson ignored the jibe. "Consider that your first and final warning, sir," he continued with icy sincerity. "If I must die, I intend to do so with my hands wrapped around your throat."

Moriarty's voice turned to steel. "I can easily accomplish my purposes with nearly every bone in your body broken and kept that way. I would suggest you not push me that far."

Watson just looked at him coolly. He seemed to have exhausted all guilt and terror on this occasion, leaving him with little more than a profound contempt for the bully in front of him. "Is that all you have to say?"

An enigmatic eyebrow was Moriarty's only answer as he rose and headed for the door – then he stopped and turned back. "Do remember, Watson, that I can do nothing that you and the Doctor have not allowed me to do." He executed a graciously mocking bow. " _Au revoir_."

Watson slumped in his chair the moment the door closed, face buried in his good hand. "Holmes..." he whispered wretchedly... then his face crumpled and he finally let the tears come, shaking with the effort of staying quiet, he still couldn't tell who might be listening. " _Sally..._ "

* * *

Getting from Whitehall to Baker Street was not easy in the midst of a London Particular. Beth's only comfort was that she must have lost Moran by now as thoroughly as she had lost herself. She didn't know this city—knew it less now than ever, thanks to the past pouring into the present like blood from an open wound. There were ancient Britons and Roman soldiers and Saxon serfs and Norman nobility everywhere. It was only by sheer luck that she finally stumbled across Baker Street.

Her legs had long since felt detached from her body, carrying her forward of their own accord. Or perhaps not entirely—fire and ice seemed to be shooting up and down her legs at the same time, and movement numbed the pain a little. If she let herself stop for one moment, she didn't think she could make herself move again. Ever.

Her face felt numb. Most parts of her that weren't her legs, in fact, felt numb. There was a dull throbbing in her head from crying over Mycroft (over everything) as long as she had, but her tears had run out and her eyelids felt swollen and heavy, the only part of her face that still felt like it was alive.

She didn't know why she kept going. Either this was a nightmare or this truly was reality: if it was a nightmare, she wanted to wake up, and if it was reality… If it was reality, she wanted to let herself collapse and curl up and fall asleep and not wake up again. Wouldn't be a bad way to go. Gentler than a tiger hunter's bullet ripping apart her flesh.

At last, she reached a part of the Baker Street mews that looked familiar. She was close to the Irregulars' gathering place. _Please let them be okay. Let them remember everything_.

* * *

Sally's heart jumped into her throat at the signal whistle from the Irregular on sentry duty, but as the older boys started cautiously coming out of hiding, she dared to put her head out, too… and could have wept in relief to see Beth stumbling towards them through the fog. "Beth! Oh, thank God!" She ran forward and hugged her, heedless of how dirty and dishevelled the poor girl was. Then again, Sally was in much the same state by now, having spent the rest of the night following the gang through a maze of back alleys, most of them a sea of mud, just like Nat had warned her.

Beth had nearly sobbed at the sight of Sally, the last surviving person she really knew... and she was all right. "Sally! Oh my gosh..." Beth hugged her back as tightly as she could, ready to weep again. She wasn't completely alone. Sally was safe, and... it looked as though the Irregulars all recognised her. Will stepped out of the shadows but hung back, catching Beth's eye and giving her a nod of greeting.

Sally's eyes widened in alarm – she could feel how cold Beth was even through both their coats. "Oh my God, you're like ice!" She snapped at the group of boys, "Someone find her a blanket! Come on, honey, let's get you warm." She hurried Beth into the yard and over to where piles of boxes were stacked together in a rough cul-de-sac to keep in the heat of a makeshift brazier: a metal bucket with holes punched in the sides, half full of glowing coals.

Beth let Sally lead her, not about to argue, and sank onto one of the boxes, needing all her willpower to keep herself upright. Slowly, she lifted trembling arms and held her thinly-gloved hands over the heat. The next moment, she groaned in pain—it had been hours since her hands had been decently warm, and the sudden heat was only painful. "I think I've been outdoors for going on twenty-four hours," she murmured to the group, if only to keep herself awake. "Or whatever's passing for it right now."

"Yew disappeared after th'explosion." Will sat down opposite Beth, looking her over with a frown, and Sally's breath caught when she suddenly noticed that her friend's face and hands were covered in tiny cuts under the dirt. She would have to get Beth cleaned up as soon as possible, the last thing any of them needed was to get sick, especially since John... _oh God... No, stop that,_ _ **get a grip**_ _!_ Sally swallowed the lump in her throat and forced herself to concentrate on what the others were saying.

Beth looked up at Will. "So that was you."

He nodded. "Oi saw Mr. 'Olmes bein' took away; Oi saw yew go after 'im." He shrugged. "Unce we got where we did, didn't take much t' figure out where yew'd end up. Only one chimney was goin' on that 'ole block of 'ouses: that 'ad t' be it. Figured yew could use a diversion."

Beth shuddered, remembering the cold metal hard against her head, Moran's pitiless grip, Moriarty's even more merciless eyes. "It saved my life. Thank you."

Will merely shrugged as if it was a regular occurrence for him. Maybe it was; she didn't know.

Nat came trotting back with a tattered wool blanket, which Sally took from him with a grateful smile. Best not to ask where it had come from... "Thank you, Nat." She sat down beside Beth and put the blanket around them both – the little she remembered from first aid courses at college was finally coming in handy.

"No trouble, mum!" Nat gave Beth what was probably meant to be a cheering grin. "Yer all roight, Beth?"

Beth pulled her end of the blanket closer around her, grateful beyond words for the comfort. She looked up at Nat and found herself wondering just how much loss he'd already faced in his short life. How many of these boys actually had decent parents, and how many of them only had Sherlock and Watson? She shook her head. "Not really," she murmured.

"Beth…" Sally was almost afraid to ask – but if Beth knew anything at all about John... "What happened in there?"

Beth gave a despairing laugh, hardly even knowing where to start. Time was broken, Sherlock had been kidnapped, and, given that Sally was here and her husband was not, Beth was willing to bet that Watson had been captured too... "Moriarty's alive."

Sally's hands flew to her mouth, the blood draining from her face. There was a collective gasp from the boys, punctuated by exclamations and fervent swearing. It looked like even the newest Irregulars had heard about Moriarty – the older ones looked nervous, the youngest of them downright scared.

"He... he never died—" Beth had overheard some of the conversation before Moran had found her—"and now he's _running_ Torchwood... and he has Sherlock." She choked back a sob; she was not going to cry about that now.

Sally wrapped her arms tight around Beth, shaking. "Oh God, Beth..." She almost choked on the next words: "He… he's got John, too!"

Beth clung to Sally, not surprised but scared nonetheless. They were down to two girls way out of their depth and a band of street boys—what chance did they have of turning this whole mess around? Of going toe-to-toe with _the_ Professor Moriarty? "An-and the Doctor seems to be out of commission… and Colonel Moran k-killed M-Mycroft…" She hiccuped a sob. It wasn't fair—Mycroft didn't even _know_ and now he was just... _dead_...

Sally's face twisted, closing her eyes against the tears welling up. Poor Mycroft… and poor Sherlock, he was going to be devastated!

"Fixed Point… they were talking about Fixed Points… Sherlock couldn't finish the case… because John wasn't there."

Sally's eyes flew open again, tears finally spilling over, her worst fears confirmed. "John..." she whispered miserably. She'd waited too long… if she hadn't let him walk out on Sherlock...

Beth looked up at Sally, chest aching—poor girl, she and Watson were _just_ married. "So Time started… started freezing… but if I can catch up with Oberstein in Paris … return the papers… that might fix Time."

Sally stared. _Fix_ Time... was that possible? The Doctor hadn't said anything about that! Then again, he hadn't bothered to mention what could happen if a Fixed Point got broken, either – he might not even have known himself. "Okay... so how do we get there?" If Beth thought for a moment that she was going on her own, she could think again!

Startled, Beth stared at Sally—surely she'd heard wrong! "W-we? _We_ aren't getting anywhere, Sally— _I'm_ going! Alone."

"The 'ell yew are." Will's chin was jutting. " _Oi'm_ goin' with yew."

Sally opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again as the realisation hit: if she went with Beth, that left no one in London who knew how to fix things if anything else went wrong. As much as she hated the thought, she would have to stay behind, if only for the sake of reconnaissance.

Beth shook her head. Somewhere deep inside her, her temper was trying to spark at Will's vehement insistence, but it wasn't quite working properly. "Oberstein won't be expecting a girl to come after him."

"So then 'e won't be lookin' fer a brother an' sister, neither." Will folded his arms, and Sally could easily see why this one was the leader – just trying to fill his shoes in his absence would be no picnic. "But yew ain't goin' alone."

Beth sighed—she supposed it wouldn't be so bad to have someone to watch her back... The next moment, she realised that her head was resting on Sally's shoulder and her eyelids were fluttering. Her body was still the sorest it had ever been, but she felt warm and comfortable despite it...

Sally frowned, kicking herself. "Will, Beth needs somewhere to sleep." Then she looked around at the rest of the group. "Actually, I think we could all use some rest – most of these boys look dead on their feet."

Will nodded. "Camden 'Ouse is still empty, we've checked. 'S as good as anywhere."

Sally swallowed hard, and glanced at Beth – but the poor girl was already half asleep and not about to offer her opinion. She took a deep breath. "All right… but _no one's_ to go visiting Mrs. Hudson, understand?" Some of the boys groaned and she shot them a stern glare. "I mean it! She doesn't remember any of us, and with Moriarty back, she'll be safer that way."

Will swore under his breath, but nodded again. "'Ere, lemme take 'er." He came forward and carefully gathered Beth into his arms, who groaned in sleepy protest at being moved. "Shhh..." He waited until Sally had tucked the blanket back around Beth, then stood. "All roight, yew lot, let's go."

* * *

 **Ria:** Watson's scene was surprisingly satisfying to roleplay – the good doctor put on a braver show with Moriarty than even I was expecting – but writing it out was _awful_. And this is only the beginning... =( *hugs Watson*

 **Sky:** *makes it a Watson sandwich* And poor Beth and Sally! This is so rough for them, too! But at least they have a plan of attack now! Stay tuned, and please review!

...pretty please?


	4. Children's Crusade

**==Chapter 4==**

 **Children's Crusade**

 _November 22, 1895_

 _Faux-Day 3_

 _Sally got my phone back from the boys, so now I can journal again. The last time I made an entry was after the Watson's wedding—well, a LOT's happened since then. I don't have time to go into details at the moment, but I will soon. Will, one of the Baker Street Irregulars, and I are in Newhaven in Sussex to get passage across the Channel to France. It's awkward, too; we've only just met, and he's a teenage boy and I'm a teenage girl and we're traveling together! (I shudder to think of the fit Mama and Daddy would throw.)_

 _We have to retrieve the Bruce-Partington plans, of all things! And in a very messed-up world—more than usual, that is._

 _I didn't really want to leave Sally, but she and the Irregulars will keep each other safe. And I think she might not have really wanted me to go, either, but I have to do this. I don't really have a choice._

 _And I'm so tired. I had a few hours of sleep before we left but I'd been awake for almost two days by then, and I've been mostly awake for at least a day since. I just want to sleep now, more than anything. Maybe I'll wake up and this really will have all been a nightmare. It sure feels like one._

 _And I hate this: going through Sussex. I can't help thinking about the retirement that Sherlock's supposed to start here in just ten years. Given how little I've discovered I know about him, I wonder if he even cares about bees, or if Watson made that up, too_?

* * *

Beth stashed away her phone. She had been using it in the middle of an inn, the Ram's Horn, but she'd done so under the cover of rummaging through her bag for something. Having her phone with her was the one bit of comfort she had right now.

Will returned to their table with two mugs of beer and a platter of bread and meat. "'Ere we go," he said quietly. "Better eat quick, the landlord's lookin' at us funny." His already-soft tone dropped to a mutter. "Wish Mr. 'Olmes's brother'd gave yew somethin' else."

Beth paled at the mention of Mycroft, shivering slightly.

 _...hiss of air, whizzing sound…_

 _...Mycroft's head suddenly half-exploding…_

She swallowed hard, dragging her mind back to the present. "Still easier," she murmured, "to transport than the gold we would have needed otherwise." She took her mug and studied the beer. At this point, she really didn't care that she was underage; she desperately needed the warmth it would give her. She hadn't felt properly warm since she'd been in 221B.

Will nodded grudgingly and tucked into the beef. "'Cept them sparklers're too flash fer most, too easy fer the peelers to trace. Least gold can be melted down."

"Well, that's what we have," she snapped, "so there's no use in complaining about it!" She exhaled forcefully and rubbed at her face, fighting the urge to break down completely. "Sorry…"

He sighed. "All roight, let's 'ear it."

She frowned, then noticed in her peripheral vision that others were looking her way. She sank a little in her seat in embarrassment. "Hear what?"

Will gave her a pointed look. "Oi ain't blind, all roight? Cat's 'ad yer tongue since we got to Sussex." His tone turned slightly more gentle. "Wot's wrong?"

She gave a quiet, despairing laugh. She wanted to tell him, but… "Apart from everything?" She shook her head. "I'd really rather not talk about it." He might not even understand. She didn't know. She didn't know _him_.

He sighed again. "S'long as it's not about 'oo we're lookin' for – if we get split up an' yew know somethin' Oi should…"

She shivered and shook her head. "No, I've already told you all I know about him."

He nodded. "Drink up then, we still got ter find us a ship." He drained his own mug, took two bread rolls, and put them in his pockets.

Sighing herself, she took a half-hearted bite of her own bread, then stuffed it in her pockets as well. The next minute, she was blinking back tears as she drank as much of her beer in one go as she could. Before Mycroft's brandy, she had only ever had one drink in her life, and she was not at all used to it yet. She set down her mug when it was half-drained and gasped out, "How do you—oh, never mind." She took a gulp of air and then finished off her mug, still gasping at the end of it.

Will nodded approvingly. "Not bad—" he grinned teasingly—"bit more practice, yew'll be givin' Kelly—" a _fifteen_ -year-old—"a run for 'is money." He stood. "C'mon."

She rolled her eyes but stood. "Right behind you…"

They exited the tavern and headed for the docks. Dull, partially obscured moonlight glimmered on the water, and the wind was blowing out of the south, chill and wet.

But a mere few steps out of the door, a trio of rough-looking men appeared out of a side street ahead of the teenagers. The leader grinned nastily at them. "'Ullo, boys!" His grin vanished. "Bag 'em."

Will grabbed Beth's arm, and they turned to run but collided with another man. Will staggered back, letting go of Beth's arm, and Beth fell backwards, crying out as she fell and hit the ground. Before Will could recover, two men from a second group were holding him down and a third held a knife to his throat. Beth tried to get up, only to be pinned down by the first leader's boot on her stomach.

Will was very still, eyes wide, looking small and scared—though Beth, gasping around the boot holding her down, thought he was probably acting. The current leader of the Irregulars had too much fire in him. "Please, sir," he said, voice quavering, "don' 'urt us! We ain't done nothin' to nobody!"

The man atop Beth, the man who appeared to be the ringleader, barked a laugh. "Not yet, you 'aven't!" He leaned down towards Beth with a blackened, pitiless grin, his breath putrid and suffocating. She shuddered at a horrible thought: these men thought she was a boy… and what would they do to her when they discovered she was a girl? "Congratulations, my lads—you've just joined Their Majesties' navy!"

* * *

The men tied the teens' hands in front of them and hauled them down the side street to a waiting horse and cart. Beth and Will were then roped to the back of the cart in full view of a good dozen bystanders, none of whom said a word in protest at the kidnapping. Press gangs were agents of the Crown, after all—and a part of English history that Beth didn't typically like to think about.

As the wagon lurched forward and the teens were forced to follow, Beth kept her head down, partly in shame, partly in caution lest her rampant emotions dig her a deeper grave, partly in concealment. The absolute last thing she wanted was to give anyone the opportunity to realise that she was a girl. Well and truly terrified, she set her teeth and forced herself to breathe deeply and remain calm outwardly, if not inwardly.

It might not have been as bad a fix as having Colonel Sebastian Moran pressing a gun to one's head, but she had no idea how they were going to get out of this.

As they neared the edge of town, she and Will were regularly jostled together; when she was sure no one would overhear, she leaned in slightly, trying to make it look as natural as possible. "I really hope you have some kind of plan," she whispered.

Plodding along, Will kept his head bowed and shoulders drooped, looking the very picture of misery. "Wot d'yew think?" he breathed scornfully, and she flinched a little in response, stung. "Stay sharp."

She nodded, sighing. She'd been in tight situations plenty of times, but maybe none quite so miserable before…

They were headed for Brighton, taking the road along the shore. Fierce and bitingly cold, the wind blew in from the sea, pulling at hair and clothing and flinging up spray from the surging high tide into their faces. Beth tried but couldn't manage holding back soft noises of discomfort, every muscle in her body aching, wrists raw from the ropes, and every inch of exposed skin stinging from wind, sea, and cold. She wanted nothing more than to simply collapse on the ground and stay there—only her fear of what might follow kept her from trying it.

Will looked just as uncomfortable, muttering baleful epithets under his breath at the press gang. All the men were sheltered from the elements by oilskin capes and greatcoats, and only two were walking now: one beside the teens, and the other coaxing the horse along. The rest huddled together in the cart.

They reached the top of a rise and continued along the clifftop of a wide bay. Beth was struck with a wild thought, wondering if it were possible to survive a dive from this height. Even if she ended up killing herself, well… she knew what lay in store for her when they reached their destination. She couldn't possibly hide her identity forever.

The cart suddenly slowed, and the man leading the horse called to the others, "Oi, Ned! Take a gander at them birds! You ever seen an albatross that big?" Beth instinctively looked towards the sea and spotted said birds. Her eyes widened in surprise—they were _huge_. Offhand, the only birds she could think of that were that big were dodos, but even if frozen Time had brought them back into existence, dodos were flightless. So what _were_ those things?

The ringleader sounded completely uninterested. "Keep yer ogles on the road, yer chub, and stow yer whids!" Beth stopped for a moment and stumbled, a chill flashing down her spine. She'd figured it out. There was only one thing those 'birds' _could_ be. "Some of us is tryin' not to freeze to death!"

The next moment, there was a loud, leathery flapping noise, and one of the 'birds' came swooping up over the edge of the cliff, and looked as startled as anyone else to have company on the clifftop. Beth gasped. A pterosaur. Fully as large as Beth's body and boasting a wide wingspan, it was just about the most magnificent thing she had ever seen.

The pterosaur swerved in midair, just avoiding the cart, and _screeched_ , deafening and unearthly. The poor carthorse, already at the end of its tether, panicked and reared, throwing the occupants of the cart backwards.

Suddenly, Will was free and cutting Beth's ropes with a knife. "Run!" he hissed.

Not thinking, acting purely on instinct, she took off running for the cliffs. There were no sounds of pursuit, only shouting—the press gang were obviously too concerned with the 'demon bird' to worry about a couple of small fry escaping, at least just yet. Shots rang out, and Beth hoped they hadn't hit the pterosaur, though she didn't look behind her to find out.

Will followed her to the edge of the cliff. "Wot're yew doin'?" he panted, wide-eyed. "Them devils'll be nestin' down there!"

And she dearly hoped that these pterosaurs were the fish-eating-only kind. The one that had given them their escape _was_ rather small… Not hesitating, but taking great care on the wet rock, Beth began to climb down. "Who would you rather take your chances with?!"

A few seconds later, Will was beside her, shaking his head. "Cor," he said in a tone that almost sounded admiring, "madder'n the Guv'nor, yew are!"

She barked a short laugh, ignoring the sudden pain in her chest and hoping that Will would never know the half of it. Going on was terrifyingly difficult. There wasn't an inch of rock beneath their hands and feet that was dry, and the wind continued to buffet them, although at least their backs were now mostly to it.

After an eternity that was probably only a minute in reality, Beth caught sight of an overhang that looked big enough to shelter them both, and made her way over to it. "Oh, thank goodness," she gasped as she reached it, able at last to take the strain off her overtired limbs.

Just as Will reached it, voices sounded at the top of the cliff. They strained their ears to listen, but the wild wind prevented any chance they had of understanding the words. For the moment, they were stuck where they were, until the press gang left. As luck would have it, a pterosaur intervened again, screeching in the distance. The noise of the horse's hooves faded quickly, lost in the howl of the wind and the roar of the ocean.

Beth relaxed further, though that in itself was hard, as the wind was still assaulting them and beating the breath right out of their bodies as they huddled together. She glanced at Will. "Which way should we go?" she said hoarsely. "Up or down?"

Will peered down, looking about as skittish as the horse had been. She didn't need to—she'd already looked and knew that there was very little beach below to be had. "Up," Will said firmly, "an' stay orf the road." He looked at her in concern. "Yew all roight?"

Grateful for the concern, she smirked tiredly and shook her head. "Not a bit." She inched her way back out into the open and up. "How 'bout you?"

He shrugged wearily. "Been better. Unce we get orf this ruddy cliff, we orter find us a kip."

A head popped over the cliff edge above. "Ahoy, there!"

Beth very nearly lost her footing, startled, and Will _did_ , swearing and treading air for a moment. "Will!" Beth cried. He regained his footing, and she gulped in relief.

She couldn't make out the stranger's face, but he sounded annoyed with himself when he spoke next. "Sorry, lad. Need a hand?"

Beth glared up at him. "Tha' depends on wot kind of 'and it is, now, don't it?"

She could just make out a shrug. "Well, we can throw you a line—" he nodded at something she couldn't quite turn to see, but she assumed to be more pterosaurs—"or you can stay there and feed the lizard birds. What'll it be?"

She sighed and carefully pulled herself further up. "If yew turn out t' be loike the last lot, Oi'll 'ave wished Oi 'ad…"

There was a snort of laughter, as if at some private joke. "Lower away, boys," the man called. A moment later, a rope appeared with a small loop at the end, and snaked its way down towards them.

Will grabbed hold and put his foot in the loop. "Oi'll go first, scout 'em out," he said as quietly as he could, given their location. "If anythin's orf, get down to the beach—Oi'll find yew, all roight?"

She bit her lip, not wanting to lose him as well, but nodded. "Be careful," she breathed.

He gave what was probably meant to be a reassuring grin. "'Course."

"Haul away!" the stranger called.

Will was raised swiftly and smoothly, and helped over the edge. He didn't call down right away, or even a few seconds later. Her body chose that moment to remind her that it had almost reached its breaking point; stiff, tense, soaked to the bone, and overtired as she was, she began to shake, her fingers starting to slip from their holds. _No, no, not now, Will, where are you? Please be all right, please don't leave me here, I can't hold on much longer, **please**_ …

Will's head reappeared over the edge, and the rope slithered down towards her again. Trying to push away the dark thoughts creeping into her mind, she took it and had a moment of panic before her foot was firmly in the loop and her hands tight around the rope. She fought down the urge to scream as she rose up the cliff face—she was suspended in the air over an almost sheer drop to nothing but sea rocks a good twenty feet or more below, and even floating in space with the Doctor's hand around her ankle had felt safer.

But Will grabbed hold of her hands when she was close enough and pulled her up and over, and his eyes gleamed with excitement. "S'all roight, they won't 'urt us." He nodded at a handful of men in eighteenth century clothing, each of them armed to the teeth. _Pirates?_ She looked apprehensively at Will, wondering what he had gotten them into.

The stranger spoke then. "All right, lad?" She turned, and her eyes went very wide. As if it hadn't been bad enough that Sherlock and Watson resembled their Granada counterparts so closely! The man, obviously the leader, possessed clear-cut, tanned features and piercing blue eyes, a tricorn jammed onto his black curls. He wasn't a perfect match, but their rescuer was very nearly the spitting image of Benedict Cumberbatch.

She shrugged slightly, hoping the man hadn't noticed her staring. "Been be'er."

He nodded. "Sorry we couldn't help before—not that you needed it, that was a rare brush!" He looked more than a little impressed.

She frowned slightly. "Wasn' e'zactly planned." _Who **is** this guy?_ And why—no, she wasn't going there; he was definitely _not_ handsome. _He absolutely is_ , a treacherous voice in her head whispered.

The thoughtful look in the man's ice-blue eyes was terribly familiar. _Zed_ , she didn't _need_ this. "So what'll you do now? The gang's shabbed back off to Newhaven—" he grinned—"likely to find a cannon." His men laughed. "I'd steer clear of that town for a while."

Beth sighed. For gosh sakes, she couldn't keep up the Cockney; she dropped it but continued to pitch her voice slightly deeper so that she wasn't instantly recognisable as female. "We find another way across the Channel. We don't really have a choice."

The man's eyes narrowed slightly at her change of voice, but he rubbed his chin and gazed at her speculatively. "Well, now… could be I might know of someone tracking that way—what's it worth?"

Well, she certainly felt more and more inadequate for this entire thing by the second, but she desperately hoped it didn't show. It seemed as though the occasional stakeout for a paranormal (or was it extraterrestrial?) being had done little to prepare her for serious field work. "A sapphire," she said quietly. Surely that would cover the cost even of a ride across dangerous waters? "We need to get to Paris, as quickly as possible."

The man arched an eyebrow in an unspoken 'Well, then?', clearly more than a little sceptical. Zed, that look was _way_ too familiar—the face was way too familiar! What was _with_ her and the Tall, Dark And Handsome types, anyway?

Will withdrew the right stone from its hiding place and let it catch the light of one of the lanterns for a moment. The men gave a chorus of exclamations, and one in particular chimed, "Dang me, Cap'n, that's a rum bauble, an' no mistakin'!"

"Stow it," the captain snapped.

Will hastily tucked the stone away again.

"Not you, lad—" the captain sighed—"no matter, keep it till we're clear."

"Will you take us, then?" Beth ventured. Forgetting herself, she smiled slightly. "Captain?"

He smiled back resignedly. "Call me a sap-scull, but it's a bargain. I can carry you as far as Dieppe." Two of the crew came forward with scarves. "And you'll have to be blindfolded—can't have you blabbing to any excisemen."

Beth eyed the scarves warily—this could still be a trap; it wouldn't be the first time prisoners had escaped from one set of kidnappers only to be snapped up by another… But… they needed to take a chance. They had to get to Paris asap. She nodded slowly. "Fair enough."

The captain took one of the scarves himself and approached Beth. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, which were covered a moment later. Then she shivered, feeling warm breath in her ear, and heard the captain's tenor murmur, "No Turks, lass, my word on that."

She exhaled sharply, heart racing, head spinning, and nodded slightly. How had he…? _No, calm down, you'll pass out_.

"Right, boys," said the captain, "we're shifting ballast—let's rattle."

As Beth was shuffled off, a hand took hold of hers, rough and slim. Will's. She gripped his hand and squeezed it briefly, grateful beyond words for the contact.

* * *

The boat they hired turned out to be a rowing galley, maybe forty feet long, with a crewman at each of the twenty-four oars. The ship cut through the icy waves with the speed of an Olympic sculling team. The teenagers' blindfolds had been removed once they were far enough away from the shore.

Out on the Channel, there wasn't even the light of the false dawn that had illuminated London just slightly. But the closer they got to France, the more light flashed and thunder boomed, and it wasn't the performance of nature. Elizabeth I's fleet and Bonaparte's army were battling. Beth caught a glimpse of a grim smile from the captain as he manned the tiller, and she thought perhaps she understood: that battle was where Will would have ended up if they hadn't escaped. She was still very much _not_ thinking about where she would have ended up.

Better to wonder about the identity of a certain nameless captain. Pirate? Smuggler? Whoever he was, she was seriously starting to believe in reincarnation, at least on a purely physical level. He was better-built than Benedict Cumberbatch, which meant that his face was not so thin as the actor's, but there remained a curious fragility to his features. Benedict, she would have called ethereal, but there was no hint of otherworldliness in this man. He was less of a Tolkien Elf and more of a Greek statue. She groaned softly. _Why?_

She wasn't the only one studying the captain, either: Will had been doing so practically since his blindfold had been taken off. The captain finally arched an eyebrow at the boy's scrutiny. "Your ma ever teach you it's rude to york?"

Will shrugged.

The man sighed. "All right, out with it."

"Yer Tom Johnstone," Will said softly, "ain't yew?"

The man grinned innocently. "Who's he, then?"

Will grinned back, looking more than a little awed. "Oi knew it!"

Beth frowned. Despite her obsession with history and British history especially, she wasn't familiar with the name. She turned to Will. "Care to elaborate for those of us that aren't local?"

Will gave her a disbelieving look. "Yew ain't never 'eard o' Tom Johnstone?"

 _Well, hello, I am American, thanks._

Johnstone looked amused and not a little flattered. "Should I be worried?"

"Me uncle's a mooncurser—'e told me stories o' yew when Oi was a nipper." Will murmured to Beth, "We're on a guinea run: carryin' British gold to pay Boney's men."

Beth frowned, replaying that statement in her head, then her expression cleared in understanding. "Oh." She grimaced in distaste. Ordinary smuggling, she would actually understand, but not selling out one's own country. _And you had been starting to like him, too…_

Johnstone caught her eye and arched another eyebrow, steel in his gaze. Okay, okay, she could take a hint; she wouldn't make a fuss. She shook her head and sighed. "I have mooncursers in my family, too," she said quietly, wryly. There was a reason why her ancestor was one of the most _upright_ officials in Scotland Yard. She shrugged. "It makes for an interesting time, with others in the family being policemen."

Johnstone chuckled. "Never mind, lad, no family's perfect."

Will snickered.

Beth sighed again. It was going to be a long boat ride.

* * *

Five hours long, as it turned out. At least, that was what Beth figured, dozing on and off the entire voyage. The tide was low when they reached France at last, beaching below the cliffs some ways west of Dieppe. Beth and Will were blindfolded again once they disembarked.

"Sorry, you two," said Johnstone. "You can take them off when it's buried."

Beth smiled resignedly.

Johnstone proceeded to lead them up away from the beach, leaving his lieutenant to oversee the unloading of the cargo. When they'd stopped, he waited with them until a whistle came from the direction of the boat, then removed the scarves.

"I know we're paying you," Beth murmured, "but thanks, nonetheless." The man hadn't needed to help them up the cliff, or take them across in the first place, or protect Beth's identity, after all.

Johnstone smiled, and she thought her heart fluttered slightly. "A pleasure, milady." He gave her a slight bow.

Will handed over the sapphire, and Johnstone pocketed it with the scarves, nodding his thanks. "Much obliged. Now, I suggest you don't wait around for the lobsters to come digging, they might just get the wrong idea…"

Beth smiled and nodded. "Safe journeys." She glanced invitingly at Will, then started to walk south and inland.

She looked back to see Johnstone raise a hand in farewell. "Good luck!" Will echoed the gesture, still looking a bit starry-eyed. Johnstone turned and headed back down to the beach, and Will turned and followed Beth.

* * *

 **Ria:** While researching Tom Johnstone, we had to laugh at how closely his physical description matched Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock! Didn't he want to be a pirate when he was a boy? =)

 **Sky:** It was too good to pass up! I'm seeing Benedict Cumberbatch with Han Solo charm? Yeah, let's go with that. =D

On a more sober note, wow, what a journey! The poor kids... At least they hit a lucky break with Johnstone! The press gang was just awful.

Last but not least, please, _please_ , **please** , if you enjoy our story, **_review_**! We're _dying_ to hear from all the people that we _know_ **are** reading this!


	5. Une Femme Ravissante

**=Chapter 5==**

 **Une Femme Ravissante**

 _M. Pierrot_

 _Hotel du Louvre_

 _Place André Malraux_

 _Dear sir,_

 _With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have discovered by now that one essential detail is missing. I have a tracing which will make it complete. This has involved me in extra trouble, however, and I must ask you for a further advance of five hundred pounds. I will not trust it to the post, nor will I take anything but gold or notes. I am in Paris at present, and shall expect to meet you at the Café de Flore at your earliest convenience._

* * *

Hugo Oberstein glanced casually around him as he entered the Café de Flore – there was apparently no sign of his contact as yet, but he didn't hesitate. He was impeccably dressed for dining in such a high-end establishment, and in any case, he had no intention of leaving without enjoying the café's splendid fare. Choosing with some care a corner table which commanded an excellent view of the rest of the dining room, he sat down and ordered a coffee from a passing waiter, allowing his gaze to travel leisurely over his fellow _patrons_. Just a little longer, and he'd be able to dine in style like this whenever he wished...

Lingering at the Hotel du Louvre had given Beth her first glimpse of Hugo Oberstein, and she recognised him as he came in through the door. All right, how to handle this? She watched him closely, praying for a good opportunity for first contact.

She was dressed appropriately for such a fine establishment—certainly expensively, thanks to a ruby from Mycroft's cache. The sleeves of her burgundy dress even possessed enough volume to conceal a derringer strapped above her right wrist. Flicking her wrist the right way would send the derringer into her hand if the situation became dangerous. She had been hopelessly—even laughably—out of her element on the journey to Paris, and she was not going to screw things up this time.

When Oberstein's gaze swept the room a second time, she caught his eye and tilted her head slightly, heart pounding as she did. _No backing out now._

 _Well, well._ Oberstein's eyebrow lifted a fraction. Could it be...? Whoever had penned that letter had certainly been female, although he'd presumed at the time that his contact had simply taken measures to preserve his anonymity, should anyone intercept it.

Smiling genially at the lovely young stranger, he rose and crossed the room, stopping in front of her and executing a graceful bow. " _Chère mam'zelle_ ," he exclaimed in French for the benefit of anyone listening, "how delightful to see you again! What an age it seems since last we met."

Zed, no wonder he was one of the bigger fish in the spy community—his easy manner was already beginning to dissipate the tension between her shoulders. Beth inclined her head again with what she hoped was a winning smile. "Quite, my dear _monsieur_." She'd already seen the TARDIS's translational matrix at work when she spoke here in France, and she couldn't begin to describe her gratitude. It was a comforting ray of sunshine in a very dark world. "Would you care to take a seat? Dining by oneself is so tedious."

Perfect French, spoken like a born Parisian – who _was_ this woman, and what was her connection to his contact? "You are not expecting anyone else, _mam'zelle_?" Oberstein tutted sadly. "A tragedy, indeed. I should be honoured to join you." He drew out the chair opposite and seated himself, signalling the waiter again.

Beth smiled enigmatically in response. "And I should be glad of your company." _Maybe this won't be so bad after all._

Her waiter returned, and she turned to him, still smiling. "Two glasses of Merlot, please."

The waiter bowed. "Certainly, _madame_. Would you care to see the menu?"

" _Oui, s'il vous plaît_."

The waiter handed her and Oberstein each a menu.

"If I may presume, _mam'zelle_?" Oberstein ventured. "The Quiche Lorraine is excellent here."

Beth nodded her gratitude—the TARDIS's translations worked wonders but even she apparently couldn't translate _everything_ in French menus. "I defer to your good judgement then, _monsieur_." She turned to the waiter. "We will both have the Quiche Lorraine, and for dessert…" She cast a quick eye over the menu and spotted something she did recognise. "Ah yes, the _mille-feuilles_." A custard dessert sounded _lovely_.

As the waiter took back the menus and departed, Oberstein looked his dining partner over thoughtfully. He could see now that she was even younger than he had first supposed, and despite her projected air of assurance, more than a little out of her depth. "Pardon my curiosity, _mam'zelle_ , but might I inquire as to the occasion?"

Oh no. The tension was returning to Beth's shoulders, and now she had a slowly somersaulting stomach to torture her as well. She sighed, wishing she could have at least had the Merlot first, to relax her a little. "Business, I'm afraid. Important business." Oh, zed, did that sound weird? That definitely sounded weird—what was she _doing_ here? Why was she trying to buy the stupid plans rather than simply steal them back? _I wish Sherlock was here_...

"And what business might that be?"

 _Don't screw up, don't screw up, don't screw up..._ "I believe, _monsieur_ ," she said softly, "that your presence here means that you received my letter."

The agent's lips twitched, suspicions confirmed. "Indeed – and would I be correct in assuming that you are not, in fact, acting on behalf of a certain mutual acquaintance?"

The waiter returned before Beth could reply, and presented the wine. When he'd finally left again, she continued. "You must forgive the deception, _monsieur_ ; I wanted to be sure you would come."

Oberstein waved his hand lazily. "No apologies necessary, _mam'zelle_ , I have not been so intrigued in some time – although, in future, may I suggest that you not attempt correspondence of that sort in such a clearly feminine hand?" He lifted his glass. " _Santé_."

Beth blushed as she raised her glass to his. " _Santé_." She took a sip, grateful for the relaxing warmth spreading through her. She would have to be careful—she wasn't used to drinking yet. And how was her cursive 'feminine' anyway? "I shall keep that in mind. May I come straight to the point?"

Oberstein nodded politely, concealing his mild disappointment. "By all means." He had to admit, he'd been enjoying this exchange; after half a lifetime spent playing the game of espionage, this brash new player was like a breath of fresh air.

Beth attempted a surreptitious deep breath and let it out slowly. "The… papers… that you possess." What if she failed? Oh zed, she wished she were anywhere else but here! "I wish to buy them from you, and I am prepared to do so entirely in precious stones."

The agent nodded slowly, eyes gleaming speculatively. Intriguing... whoever her client might be, they were shrewd enough not to use a specific currency. "I assume you are also prepared to verify your intent?"

"But of course." She reached into her handbag and withdrew a sapphire, holding it towards him for his inspection. "It is one of many." Thank goodness, Mycroft had actually given her more than enough, she figured, to make the trip both ways and buy the plans and _still_ have stones left over—in case of emergencies, she imagined.

Oberstein's eyebrows lifted, impressed – to an old hand like himself, the stone's quality was obvious at first glance. "Which amounts to?"

Only then did Beth realise one crucial preparation she'd overlooked. _Zed, zed, zed..._ She calculated quickly in her head based on how far she'd gotten with the gems already, including selling one for actual French money. She did have a set number she'd planned on using for this—she only hoped she could give an accurate estimate. "At least… five hundred thousand gold napoleons, I believe."

"You believe?" Oberstein shook his head, regretfully but firmly. "My dear, I deal only in set figures, not vague estimates. 'A king's ransom' might sound impressive in a fairy tale, but it won't carry much weight on the open market. Find a dealer who can discreetly assess them, and we may yet do business."

Gritting her teeth, Beth put the stone away. _Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How much more naive and arrogant could you possibly have been, thinking that you could actually pull this off?_ "Then I will." She rose from her chair and nodded to him. "Good day."

The agent's eyes widened, genuinely taken aback. "You will not wait even to dine, _mam'zelle_?" Anxious to avoid a scene in such a public setting, he rose as well without haste, voice composed but sincere. "Please, my dear, sit, I beg you. I should be mortified if our first encounter were to end so on my account."

She wasn't sure whether his courtesy made her feel better or worse, but she was far too embarrassed even to be tempted to stay. "I must beg your pardon, _monsieur_ , for I do have urgent matters to attend to." God only knew what Moriarty was doing to Sherlock and Watson while she was here in Paris, still far from setting Time back on track. Time might be frozen, but it was still of the essence, and she had wasted enough of it already, thanks to her own stupidity. "Please do not blame yourself; the fault is mine."

Oberstein nodded regretfully. "Then I shall not keep you, _mam'zelle_. Allow me to settle the bill, at least." He bowed slightly. " _Au revoir._ " He hoped he _would_ see her again, and not merely for the sake of the promised payment. This was clearly her first assignment, and he did have something of a soft spot for the novices of his profession. It would be a pity, although no fault of his, if they could not come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Beth inclined her head in return, grateful and a little soothed. The man was a spy—a liar by profession, and one who was responsible for the death of an innocent man—but she hoped his... kindness... was sincere. "Thank you," she said quietly. " _Au revoir_."

* * *

 _The Lord Chamberlain is commanded_

 _by His Imperial Majesty to invite_

Monsieur Pierrot

 _to a Garden Party_

 _at the Palais Royal._

* * *

The magnificent gardens of the Royal Palace were thronged with Parisians from all walks of life. Attending one of the Emperor's lavish parties might not confer the same distinction as when the aristocracy had ruled the roost, but when free food and the finest champagne from his Majesty's wine cellar was to be had, who was complaining?

Oberstein quietly threaded his way through the assembly of the great unwashed, champagne flute in hand, eyes and ears open for any interesting information he might just happen to overhear. The ornate invitation card that had awaited him at the Hotel du Louvre was safe in his coat pocket, with one corner on discreet display, should whomever had sent it approach him. He would be willing to wager that very few of the other guests had received a written invite, if any...

All at once, the agent felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise – someone _was_ watching him. Resisting his first impulse to turn with the ease of long practice, Oberstein continued slowly on through the crowd, but he had almost reached the far end of the gardens before his instincts were proved correct. A dark, classic beauty, resplendent in a scarlet gown and her hair dressed in simple but perfect taste, glided gracefully up to him with a pleasant smile. " _Bonjour, monsieur._ I do not believe I have had the pleasure."

Oberstein turned to her, his own smile equally amiable. "And I am certain I would remember you, _madame_ , had we met before." He bowed over her ungloved hand and kissed it. Interesting... no rings or tell-tale marks of such – in fact, she was entirely without jewellery of any kind. "Henri Poirier, at your service."

The woman's smile broadened. "And Madame Faucheux at yours, _monsieur_. I do not think I have seen you in the Emperor's court before, are you recently come to Paris?"

"Indeed, I have been abroad for some while – but I return, as you see, to the arms of my beloved city. Paris is _la femme ravissante_ , and I have missed her greatly."

"As, I'm certain, she has missed you." Madame Faucheux glided just a little nearer, her voice growing deeper. "What have you been doing abroad?"

Oberstein's smile turned enigmatic. "Combining business with pleasure."

Madame arched a charmingly suggestive eyebrow. "And what may your... pleasure be?"

 _Just a touch overdone, my lady..._ "Goosefeather beds and expensive clarets." Oberstein chuckled sympathetically at the flicker of disappointment in his companion's eyes. "I am a researcher for Groupe Flammarion, they intend to publish a new travel guide."

"How fascinating." Madame laid her hand on his arm, still smiling. "Where has your research taken you?"

"Almost anywhere you can imagine –" Oberstein was suddenly feeling oddly wistful, a pleasant warmth spreading through him; "the things I have seen... ah, _ch_ _è_ _re madame_ , I could tell you such stories…" Then just as swiftly, the dreaminess faded away again, leaving the agent blinking in the glaring light of the torches. What the devil had just happened? A little too much champagne, perhaps – foolish of him to have indulged while still on the job. And whatever this woman wanted, _something_ about her was making him decidedly uneasy, he'd best be taking his leave. "But people who are forever talking about themselves are the greatest bores imaginable, and I must not monopolise you." He bowed, doing his best to sound regretful. "It has been an honour to make your acquaintance."

Madame did not bow back, merely removing her hand from his arm with a thoughtful frown, an odd gleam in her eyes. "And my pleasure, _monsieur_. _Au revoir_."

Oberstein felt the woman's gaze on the back of his neck as he strolled away. Taking a roundabout route back to the main entrance, he chose one of the waiting carriages in the palace square at random, giving the driver an address a street away from his lodgings. He climbed in and relaxed back against the seat, trying to rid himself of the bizarre but chilling impression he'd had: for a moment, he could have sworn that Madame Faucheux had looked at him the way a starving man would look at a loaf of bread...

* * *

 _(Scene rating: V)_

Oberstein entered his lodgings cautiously, locking the door behind him. He was fairly sure he hadn't been followed, but he didn't dare ignore the growing certainty that the plans were no longer safe here. Deciding to move to another of his bolt holes without delay, he lit a candle and started packing a few belongings from a trunk into a smaller bag – the packet could remain where it was until the last minute.

Then the lock mysteriously clicked back, and the door swung open to reveal a young redheaded woman aiming a revolver at him. "Please don't move, Herr Oberstein. I would prefer not to shoot you."

The agent's eyes widened. "A happy coincidence," he responded slowly, keeping up the French accent for the moment; "I would prefer not to _be_ shot. But I am afraid you are mistaken, _mam'zelle_. My name is Henri Poirier, there is no one called... Oberstein living here. If there is some way _I_ can help you..."

The woman stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. "The plans, _mein Herr_. The plans to the British submarine. I am authorised to obtain those papers by any means necessary."

Oberstein shook his head, letting his genuine bewilderment show on his face. " _Mam'zelle_ , I would assist you if I could, but I have not the slightest idea of what you are talking about! Who are you?" _Himmelherrgott_ , had every female agent in Europe been given his description?

The strange female sighed, and to Oberstein's horrified disbelief, her appearance began to _change_ , features and figure seeming to melt like wax then quickly reforming until... a different, more familiar woman stood before him in the redhead's clothes: Madame Faucheux.

The agent could only stare, face white. "What...?!" he managed to croak.

"Now, enough games, _mein Herr_ ," Madame stated flatly. "The Bruce-Partington plans. Now."

"I..." Oberstein cleared his throat, making a valiant effort to pull himself together. "I am afraid you are too late, _madame_. The plans have already changed hands." He gave the woman his best apologetic look. "If you had only approached me earlier..."

Madame smiled coldly. "I can tell a lie from a truth, _mein Herr_ , even from such an experienced liar as yourself." She advanced on Oberstein, her expression one of deadly intent. "Where. Are. They?"

Oberstein's eyes flickered involuntarily towards his open trunk in the far corner of the room.

Madame's face lit up, rushing over to the trunk, only to hiss in fury on finding it empty. Oberstein, meanwhile, reached unseen into his coat pocket for the life-preserver he always carried and rushed forward, bent on burying the heavy ball of lead in the back of the woman's skull – chivalry be damned, this... _creature_ clearly wasn't even human!

Madame must have heard him coming, for her head snapped up, turning to aim the gun at him once more, fine features contorted in a snarl. A shot rang out, and Oberstein's right leg buckled under him, bringing him to the ground, the blackjack flying from his hand.

Dazed with pain and clutching his searing thigh, the agent looked up in time to see the creature's eyes ablaze with unholy fire, nostrils flaring... and then she was upon him.

* * *

Beth and Will had been shadowing Oberstein, and saw him pick up _another_ shadow when he left the garden party. Beth didn't know who the mystery woman was, but it was a fair bet that Oberstein—and by extension, their chance of getting the plans—was in danger. The gunshot they heard as they made it to Oberstein's bedroom window confirmed it. Will drove his elbow into the window, shattering the glass, and clambered inside, Beth following.

They rushed into the common room and stopped dead in horror. Oberstein was bleeding on the floor from a leg wound, and the mystery woman was _sucking_ on the wound like a vampire! _Maybe she is_ , Beth thought dazedly. Will swore quietly but fervently, looking like he wanted to be sick.

The woman's head snapped up, teeth bared as she hissed warningly at them. _Okay, definitely a vampire_.

Even through the scarlet haze clouding his vision, Oberstein recognised the young woman from the café. "Run, child!" he croaked, reaching out towards his fallen blackjack with agonising slowness, weak with pain. At the very least, he might distract the creature long enough... then gasped as Madame turned and seized his wrist in a grip like a steel trap, fingers rapidly growing numb.

As soon as the woman's head began to turn, Beth ran forward and threw out her left leg in a kick aimed at the older woman's head. The woman turned back and ducked, Beth's boot glancing off her head, and lashed out with her free hand to grab Beth's leg. Beth fell with a cry, and the woman was suddenly atop her and pinning her down by the throat.

"Oi, Missus Ripper!" Will shouted tauntingly. He was standing by the lit candle, holding a small brown packet over the flame, the bottom edge dangerously close. He grinned wickedly. "Look what Oi found!"

"No!" Oberstein shouted in genuine alarm. Foolish boy, he had just made himself a target for nothing!

The woman gave an inhuman screech and flew at Will. Eyes round, his hand unconsciously lowered, and the packet's edge, which had already been smouldering, burst into flame. The woman snatched the packet from his hand, sending him flying into the wall, stunning him. The candle, too, was knocked over but went out instantly.

The woman slammed the packet down against the floor, spreading her hands across it to stop the fire, not seeming to care if she was burnt. She screamed in fury, but in so high a pitch that it must have been on the very edge of human hearing. Beth clutched her head in pain.

Oberstein winced at the ringing in his ears, then his eye was caught by a gleam of light reflecting off metal. Madame's revolver, lost in the scuffle, lay near the door, only a foot or two out of reach. The agent gathered himself for a mighty effort, doing his best to ignore the pain, lunged for the gun and snatched it up, swinging back around to aim it at the creature.

The woman whipped around and sprang forward, knocking Oberstein aside and fleeing the apartment. Beth groaned in frustration and not a little pain as she pushed herself up to go after the alien. She didn't know _how_ exactly she was going to manage to get the plans away from a lady vampire, but she had to try—

Oberstein reached out to the girl, shaking his head urgently. "No, child, let her go!"

Beth turned to him, feeling distinctly dazed. "But… the papers…"

"...are safe," Oberstein answered firmly. "She has nothing... she should not..." He slumped wearily against the nearest wall, grimacing – his head, wrist and leg all throbbed like the devil and his bullet wound was still bleeding freely. "The candle, please, _mam'zelle_."

Beth hastily set it upright and relit it, mercifully no more damage done than spilled wax on the table. To her left, Will was slowly coming around, groaning faintly. She glanced between him and Oberstein, then decided that the spy's bleeding took priority. She knelt beside him and murmured, "Will?" Thank goodness she'd shopped for more than merely clothes in Paris; she drew a roll of bandages from her utility belt and began to put a temporary dressing on the wound, wincing at the sight of it.

Oberstein grunted when she tightened a tourniquet around his upper thigh, although managing not to let rip with the usual string of epithets. _Lieber Gott_ , how he detested being shot, he could hardly even remember the last time!

Will lifted his head weakly, struggling to sit up. "…Beth…?"

Beth turned to him in concern. "Hold on…" She moved over to him and helped him up slowly, carefully to a sitting position. "Really hope you don't have a concussion…" She could barely remember what she'd learned in school about concussions and how to deal with them.

Wincing, Will put his head in his hands. "What 'appened?" His eyes widened with remembrance. "Oh gawd, she didn't…"

Beth rubbed his back comfortingly. "Apparently not…" She looked inquiringly up at Oberstein.

Oberstein gave her a pained smile, then remembered the flask in his inside pocket, taking it out and looking at it wryly. "Finest brandy… I was keeping this to celebrate completing the sale –" A huff of silent laughter escaped him; "ironic, yes?" Not wishing to prolong the suspense, he nodded towards the trunk as he uncorked the flask. "You found one compartment, young sir, but not all… Turn the trunk over." He braced himself, lifted the dressing, and poured a little of the brandy over his leg, hissing through clenched teeth as the liquor bit into the wound.

Will moved, but Beth beat him to it, turning the trunk over. One of the panels on the bottom came away to reveal a second small compartment, holding a packet identical to the one Will had found. Brown paper wrapping, tied in rough twine. The key to this whole mess, and, truly ironically, the plans to a submarine that, to Beth's knowledge, would never be used.

She carefully removed the packet. "This is it?" she breathed.

Oberstein nodded, gazing at her thoughtfully – the way she was looking at the plans didn't speak of patriotism or even personal gain, her eyes were filled with an aching sadness... "Do I even want to know what is really going on here?"

Beth shivered slightly. "No, probably not." She realised he was studying her, and she returned the thoughtful gaze. Furthermore, she realised that she should probably not like him, that she shouldn't care, that she should just take the papers and go… After all, if it hadn't been for him, this whole mess might not have happened; there would have been no case, no Fixed Point for Sherlock and Watson to break.

And yet she knew in her bones that it wasn't what the Doctor would have done, had he been here – nor was it what she ought to do. Even if, in what should have been the original timeline, Oberstein would have been arrested, and certainly, either way, he was responsible for the death of Arthur West.

Sighing, she drew a pouch out from her coat. "I had them appraised," she said softly.

Oberstein nodded again – he might have expected less from another agent, but not after seeing firsthand how this one operated. He wasn't even inclined to ask the total sum, it was certainly better than he would have had from 'Madame'. "Thank you."

Beth smiled slightly, then frowned in concern at his leg. That was a nasty wound, and he'd lost even more blood than he would normally have, thanks to the vampire. "Do you need help with that? We can help you get to a doctor."

Oberstein shook his head as the boy Will slowly got to his feet, tutting. " _Ch_ _è_ _re mam'zelle_ , you both look almost in worse condition than I. Give my address to the physician in the next street, he makes house calls." He smiled in gratitude as the pair helped him up and over to the couch. "Now go –" his eyes twinkled as he regarded his two young saviours for what would hopefully be the last time; "and I will pray we do not meet again."

Will gave the agent a nod of respect. "Yer all roight fer a nose, guv'. Mind 'ow yew go."

The agent grinned wryly. "I intend to." In fact, he was seriously starting to think that this would be an opportune moment to retire from the game altogether – no one could say he hadn't earned it! He looked over at Beth, expression softening unconsciously. So earnest and impetuous... she reminded him very much of a certain young clerk, whose death he would have greatly regretted, had he not learned long ago the futility of such. " _Adieu_."

Beth's smile faded, almost as if she were sad at the thought of not seeing him again. Surely that couldn't be, though, right? It was time to run home and set things right—she should be _excited_... She handed him the pouch and murmured, " _Adieu_."

* * *

Once the pair had left, Will supported by... Hugo Oberstein chuckled as he raised his brandy flask – he still didn't even know the young woman's name. "Good luck, my friends," he toasted, "and here is to a long and comfortable retirement!"

* * *

 **Ria:** Those who've read 'A Study in White', we hope you enjoyed the reappearance of the plasmavore – given everything that happened in that TARDISode, we simply couldn't leave her out of the finale!

If anyone's wondering how Will and Beth managed to track Oberstein down, let's just say that in the original case, his false name and mailing address at the hotel _are_ revealed in due course, and we decided for the sake of convenience that Beth would have remembered those particular details. (Those who know the case well, did you spot the other thing she knew by heart?)

As for Oberstein himself, I very much enjoyed fleshing out his character – for someone who's so pivotal in the case itself, we don't get to see him at all in Watson's account, which seems a great shame. And yes, there's a reason we haven't revealed who his mysterious contact is yet!

 **Sky:** Oberstein has to be one of my favorite minor characters! In the good-neutral-evil spectrum, he's probably either Chaotic Neutral or True Neutral, and that's one of the most interesting places for a character to be.

Also, poor Beth really just got tossed into the deep end, didn't she? At least she hasn't drowned yet—thank goodness Will is with her!

Please review!


	6. If It Can Be Broken

**==Chapter 6==**

 **If It Can Be Broken**

Civil report – Torchwood

 _\- Food shortage temporarily abated by population explosion in animal kingdom. Species include many previously extinct and/or dangerous breeds, see attached file for details._

 _\- Rumours of unicorn sightings in Scottish highlands, no confirmations to date. Pterodactyls thriving along coastline, recommend cull if fish numbers decline significantly._

 _URGENT: APPEARANCE OF SNAKES IN IRELAND SPURRING CATHOLIC INQUISITION TO NEW HEIGHTS. HUMAN POPULATION RAPIDLY DECREASING, REQUEST IMMEDIATE INTERVENTION._

* * *

Holmes had to admit, the Torchwood laboratories _were_ impressive: hundreds of feet below the mews that housed the head offices, and apparently stretching for miles. He still hadn't been given the chance to learn his way around the complex, but it was clear that the Institute had spent decades preparing for Moriarty's grand design – although Holmes doubted that more than a trusted few had known what the end result was to be!

The main focus now, of course, was food. Strangely, no one seemed to have taken into account until quite recently that, with Time at a standstill, almost all biological growth had come to a complete halt. Food wouldn't spoil, but it also wouldn't replenish, and it wasn't only the plant life; milk-giving animals were dry, birds had ceased to lay eggs, and without yeast, fresh leavened bread had also become a thing of the... well, the past.

Inspired by the steadily worsening situation, some bright young apprentice had conducted his own unauthorised tests with the infamous Rift energy, and was excited to discover that the energy's effects on biological matter remained unhindered by this new temporal phenomenon. Holmes dearly hoped the apprentice had gained a great deal more than technical knowledge from the incident – the sight of that young man's newly-withered right hand made the detective's flesh crawl in sympathy... Nikola Tesla had been incredibly fortunate.

Since that breakthrough, however, the Institute's resident scientists had been working non-stop, conducting tests on the energy in much more strictly controlled conditions – for whatever that was worth, Holmes mused. Since he was only down here as an observer, he and his armed escorts were separated from the main laboratory by several layers of plate glass, most likely of the sort that had been used for the original fuel cells. Although trying to appear uninterested, the detective couldn't take his gaze from the activity before him, torn between hoping that the energy would still be too volatile and begin wreaking havoc, and the increasing desire to conduct a few tests of his own – there was so much to be learned here...

"What do you think of it?" At the sound of Moriarty's voice from behind, the guards silently turned and departed.

Holmes shrugged – he was hardly about to share his true sentiments on the subject. "Interesting... and you disparage _my_ sense of self-preservation, my dear sir? I really hadn't thought of you as the suicidal type –" his lips suddenly twitched; "before Switzerland, at any rate."

Moriarty's eyes were narrowed slightly as he came forward into Holmes's line of vision, but his tone remained even. "Nothing worthwhile was ever accomplished without great risk." His gaze wandered over the work going on in front of them. "Time frozen over carries with it tremendous consequences, some of them potentially devastating, and if nothing is done about it, the human race _will_ eventually cease to exist."

Holmes nodded. He might not possess Mycroft's genius – or Moriarty's – for handling international affairs, but he could still appreciate the countless issues that would need to be addressed. "A fitting challenge, indeed," lip curling slightly, "for a man of your talents."

Moriarty arched an eyebrow. "And what of a man of yours? Where should you like best to fit into this new world?"

Holmes echoed the eyebrow. "Forgive my scepticism, Professor, but I should not have thought that my _wishes_ would ever be of serious consideration to you." Except in terms of leverage, of course... was this why the man had finally deigned to pay him a second visit?

"Well, heaven help us all if you remain as bored as this for the rest of eternity," Moriarty responded dryly.

Suppressing a shudder at the thought, Holmes drawled back, "And no doubt I am about to discover what you consider to be a suitable diversion."

"A transitory one, yes." Moriarty inclined his head towards the door, his faint smile making the detective's hair stand up on the back of his neck. The Professor smiling had never signified anything pleasant in the past and he didn't expect any different now. "Shall we?"

* * *

Moriarty gestured at the chair beside his desk as they entered the study. "Our appointment should arrive in a minute or so."

Holmes seated himself, trying to at least appear at ease and quiet his thoughts. Conjecture was useless at this point, he didn't have enough data, which was doubtless what Moriarty had intended. "One of the advantages of a benevolent autocracy, I imagine: one is seldom kept waiting."

Moriarty shook his head as he sat down, any reply he might have made forestalled by a knock at the door. "Come."

A middle-aged brunette entered, beaming. " _Bonjour_ , Director."

Moriarty tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Welcome back, Madame."

The strange female then nodded graciously at Holmes, although seeming more than a little surprised at his being there. " _Bonjour,_ Monsieur Holmes _._ "

"Madame." Was it Holmes's imagination, or was there a note of familiarity in the agent's voice? He certainly couldn't recall ever meeting her.

The woman turned back to Moriarty, withdrawing a brown paper packet from her coat pocket, which looked strangely charred along one edge, and handing it over. "The missing Bruce-Partington plans, _monsieur_ , as promised."

The announcement fell on a horrified Holmes's ears like a thunderbolt. The plans... dear God, Torchwood had found Oberstein!

Moriarty accepted the packet with the briefest glance at Holmes, opened it with care, and unfolded the papers. After a moment's pause, he said calmly, "It would seem that an error was made, Madame. Have you any notion of what that error may be?"

Madame shook her head warily, now looking as tense as Holmes felt.

Moriarty slowly crumpled the top sheet, knuckles white, although his face and voice remained impassive. "These are not the plans, Madame. Would you be so kind as to explain yourself?"

Madame had by now turned equally pale. "There was a struggle – the boy was threatening to destroy..."

Moriarty's eyes flashed with anger. "You allowed yourself to be outwitted by _children_?" Madame took an involuntary step backwards, eyes wide and opening her mouth in protest, but the Professor cut her off sharply. "Enough. We will discuss this later. You are dismissed."

Madame bowed her head, then turned and all but fled from the room, while Holmes sat in stunned silence, heart and mind racing as he digested what he'd heard. If Beth and one of the Irregulars (Will, perhaps?) had bested this agent, gotten hold of the real plans... then the case could well be solved! Beth knew who the thief really was, of course, and the plans being returned to Woolwich would be proof enough to clear West's name...

"Whatever has happened, Holmes..." Moriarty's quiet voice cut through the detective's whirling thoughts like a knife; "it was not enough." Holmes turned to see the Professor sitting with his fingers steepled, eyes closed. "I cannot sense even the faintest stirring in Time."

 _Not enough..._ Holmes would have given anything at that moment to believe that Moriarty was lying; but the Professor's serene expression made it horribly clear that of all his present concerns, a restored Fixed Point wasn't one of them... and at that moment, the last remaining spark of hope in the detective's breast flickered and died. Blind, arrogant _fool_ that he was – solving the case had truly been too little, too late.

Moriarty had won.

"I gather, sir," he said flatly, in a voice that felt strangely detached, "that our business here is concluded?"

The triumphant glint in Moriarty's eye belied his innocent tone. "For the moment – unless you wish to remain whilst I read reports."

"Hardly," Holmes answered, in as bored a voice as he could manage, and rose with a cursory nod. "My thanks for the diversion, Professor, such as it was." There would be few enough of those in future...

* * *

Halfway down the passage, Holmes tensed as a figure stepped from the shadows, then relaxed a fraction when he saw it was the female agent from earlier. She bobbed a curtsey, which might well have looked elegant, had she been suitably attired. "Monsieur Holmes, it _is_ a pleasure to see you again." Her tone became wistful as she drew nearer. "I only wish the circumstances were kinder."

Holmes bowed stiffly, brow furrowed – she _did_ seem faintly familiar, he simply couldn't think why. "Forgive me, Madame, but I cannot immediately recall our being introduced." Perhaps the film première, there had been a great many guests.

Madame smiled. "Then allow me to remind you..." Her hand rose to touch his face.

Startled, Holmes automatically caught the woman's wrist as she reached out... and his grip unconsciously tightened in shock as her form began to blur and shift. In a few moments, a very different, very _familiar_ female was standing before him, in the same clothes she had worn when they'd first met.

"Now do you recall?" she purred, smile brightening.

As if Holmes could have forgotten! He hastily let go of her wrist and started backing away, only to collide with the wall behind him.

"As I said, _monsieur_ , a pleasure to see you again."

Holmes couldn't quite think how to respond to that – he felt strangely short of breath, pulse thundering... He did his best to pull himself together, straightening and clearing his throat. "Pardon my hasty reaction, _mam'zelle_. I truly had not expected to encounter you again." _Except perhaps as a corpse..._ "Especially not in such a setting as this."

She ran her gaze over him briefly, shrugging. "The Director found my... talent... of shape shifting quite useful." Her voice softened. "I have security here, a purpose... I need not live alone..."

Holmes's lip curled slightly, wishing he could trust this creature enough to break eye contact. "Congratulations, _mam'zelle_. And take heart: as you say, I don't imagine Moriarty considers you quite as expendable as your predecessor."

She shook her head and took a slow step nearer, murmuring, "Monsieur Holmes, _really_. That was not so subtle by half..."

Holmes watched her narrowly, suspicion warring with his growing intrigue. "And pray, _mam'zelle_ , what exactly were you expecting? If you wish for playful repartée, you ought to know I am hardly the man to approach." The woman had read Watson's stories, after all.

She moved nearer still, extending her hand slowly towards him. "Yet it was my understanding that you made a... _fascinating_... conversationalist..."

His head was starting to feel strangely light... his cheeks were warm… "But what do you imagine, _mam'zelle_..." he managed to murmur, "that the damned would have to say to each other?"

Her soft giggle was almost musical. "So melodramatic... and you, of all people, with so many stories to tell... you wonder what you have to say?" She was holding his gaze effortlessly, limpid eyes so clear and untroubled, no tears... he found himself wondering dreamily if Beth would cry, when she discovered that solving the case was futile... "Why are you here?"

The woman's hand was tentatively rising to his cheek once more... but her tearless eyes were green, not blue... and as Holmes blinked in confusion, he realised that that was a very good question: why _was_ he here? Stepping aside smoothly before she could touch him, he gave her a coldly polite smile. "Another time, perhaps, _mam'zelle_."

She tilted her head, alluring smile never faltering – she didn't seem the least surprised or even disappointed at his sudden turnaround. "I should like that. _Au revoir_." Blowing him a kiss, she melted back into the shadows.

The detective didn't even bother answering, he was too busy trying to work out what the devil had just happened! Allowing an alien predator – and an agent of Moriarty's, at that! – to get anywhere near him, what had he been thinking?! Good God, was he really _that_ desperate for company? He must remember: no one here was to be trusted, every Torchwood employee would be beholden to the Professor in some manner, preventing their defection – and in the plasmavore's case, Moriarty's leverage over her was only too easy to deduce.

Shaking his head, he strode swiftly away to the elevator, only allowing himself to relax once he was safely below ground again. He might as well head back to the laboratories – there was little point in going to his own quarters... not until he was exhausted enough to sleep without dreaming.

* * *

Beth hadn't been sure what she thought would have happened if Time had restarted, but it had been over an hour now since she and Will had returned the plans to Woolwich. There was no sign that things were any better. The sky was still dark, and people from other times still walked the streets of a significantly changed London.

It didn't matter then. Solving the case hadn't fixed Frozen Time. They were stuck with reality like this.

She didn't say a word to Will on their way back to Camden House. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry for having put him through all of this for nothing, but the words wouldn't come. He needed to concentrate anyway—the streets had changed in the time that they'd been gone, though the main thoroughfares appeared to be all there. He looked anxious, too, no doubt to make sure that the other boys were all right.

They slowed to a snail's pace as they approached the back of Camden House. Will let out a sigh of relief at the sound of a familiar signal. "Nat?"

Nat emerged from the shadows, grinning. "'Ow do?"

Will sighed and shook his head. "Not s' good. 'Ow's everybody?"

The younger boy's grin began to fade. "Still in one piece, just about. Charlie 'ad a run-in wiv one o' them Terry-wotsits, but 'e's doin' all roight now."

Beth frowned. "Terry-what…" Her eyes widened as comprehension dawned. " _Pterosaur_?" Or _pterodactyl_? The latter might have been the term that Sally was more familiar with—Beth didn't know.

Will frowned. "Wot's that?"

"The creature that scared the press gang." Beth entered the house and ran to the room where they'd set up camp. "Sally?"

"Beth?!" came Sally's voice, quiet but sharp. She appeared in the doorway, looking exhausted, but her eyes were shining. "Oh, thank God!" She ran forward and hugged Beth.

Behind them, Will was coming up the stairs with Nat and a couple of the young boys. "...roostin' at the Tower now," Nat was saying—"word is they've polished orf all the ravens!"

Beth's breath hitched, and she buried her face in Sally's shoulder, clinging to her. "Sally, I'm sorry," she choked out. "I'm so sorry."

Sally rubbed her back gently, the simple gesture unlocking whatever tears Beth hadn't been able to cry yet. "What happened?" she said quietly.

Will sighed. "We got the plans an' returned 'em. Ob'vusly didn't do nuthin'."

"It should have worked," Beth whispered, looking up. "It was supposed to work. I don't know… I don't know if anything…" She stifled a sob.

Sally frowned, shaking her head. "So, maybe we missed something… What happened to Oberstein—was he arrested?"

Will shook his head and opened his mouth, but Beth beat him to it. "Of course not, it was just us! That shouldn't have mattered! What mattered was getting the plans back! What mattered was… solving the zedding case… which Sherlock couldn't do because he didn't have John with him!"

Sally's breath caught. "Oh my God," she whispered.

"So… we jus' got ter get 'em back t'gether, roight?" Nat said hopefully.

Beth stared at him, then looked slowly back at Sally. "Their friendship… _that_ was the Fixed Point?"

"I don't know," Sally said slowly, "I mean, Mrs. Hudson's clock was going mad even before they split up, but…"

"'S more of a chance then we 'ad five minutes ago," said Will, "or wotever passes fer it roight now."

Sally nodded. "And if I remember the Doctor right, Time isn't always linear, anyway—sometimes you get the effect before the cause."

Beth nodded slowly, wanting to hope but not quite daring to, yet. "That means that we're going to have to get Sherlock and John away from Moriarty ourselves." Joy. It had taken Sherlock _years_ to beat Moriarty the first time around, and they didn't even have anybody that brilliant among them now. " _And_ get them back together." She sighed, recalling Sherlock's stubborn moodiness from the one day that they'd spent together in 221B. "And I don't know about John, but that'll take some _serious_ doing with Sherlock."

Sally smiled wickedly, eyes gleaming—bit disturbing, coming from her, of all people. "Well, if a lecture's needed, I'm pretty sure we could both give Mrs. Hudson some stiff competition."

* * *

 _One 'week' later..._

If there was one thing that Colonel Sebastian Moran could not abide, it was a mistake on his part during a hunt. He had assumed that Elizabeth Lestrade would not return to Baker Street, as it was an obvious hiding place. Now it seemed that she had done just that.

And left.

He swore as he studied the marks left behind in Camden House, of all places. There had clearly been a large group of people here, recently—Holmes's street urchins, no doubt. So the girl was running around with the Baker Street Irregulars? That could go a long way in explaining that damn explosion that saved her in the first place. Not that Moran entirely minded: shame to have to kill such a pretty little thing. And so much fire in her, as well…

Oh, and what was this? A clear imprint of a lady's boot in the dirt. Interesting—the girl had been wearing men's boots in Torchwood. The size was wrong, too; no woman as _tall_ as Elizabeth Lestrade could possibly have a foot that would fit this particular boot.

So then, not only the Irregulars but also another woman. Moran did not look forward to reporting his failure to the Professor, but Moriarty would nonetheless be most interested in this development.

* * *

 **Ria:** So, did anyone guess last chapter who the plasmavore was working for? For those wondering how she keeps having that interesting effect on men, let's just say that, thanks to certain salvaged alien artifacts, Torchwood already has a pretty good grasp of chemical warfare... Pheromone perfume, ladies? =D

 **Sky:** _Yipes_. Looks like the gang cleared out just in time! And yeah, they lost this round, but we'll see what happens in the future! Poor Sherlock, though, and Beth. *hugs them both*


	7. Speak, Friend, And Enter

**==Chapter 7==**

 **Speak, Friend, And Enter**

Field report – Torchwood

 _\- Situation in United States rapidly deteriorating. Growing hostility between native tribes and Europeans, civil war seems inevitable. Return of slave ownership in all states, despite efforts of presidents Lincoln and Cleveland._

 _\- Immigrant fleet survived Atlantic tempests, remaining ships expected at Cornwall ports in due course._

* * *

George stumbled to a halt, leaning gratefully against the nearest wall, chest burning as he drew in great lungfuls of damp, smoky air. He'd _thought_ he was fit! "Have we lost them?"

His friend didn't look in much better shape, although Nikola's thin, wiry frame had been a welcome advantage in their flight through London's maze of fog-filled streets; unfortunately, they'd also had to abandon their carpet bags, which would be long gone by now.

Closing his eyes, the telepath's expression became distant again, but this time with a severe frown. "Yes, they've given up... I think..."

George slowly straightened, finally catching his breath. "Well, that was instructive," he muttered. "Note to self: never answer to the name 'George' around a pack of Jacobites!" He regretted his choice of words the next moment as Nikola shot him an apologetic glance, massaging his temples.

"Come on, cheer up," he grinned tiredly. "It wasn't your fault those idiots couldn't tell you're not German! Are you all right?" So many new minds here, crammed into such a small space – Nikola must be battling an almighty headache. At least his friend had had time to grow accustomed to the other passengers during the voyage; besides, most of them had been Negroes, determined to keep their hard-won liberty by getting out while they still could, and certainly not inclined to pick a fight with any of their fellow refugees.

Nikola nodded firmly. "We need to keep moving, we're getting close..."

"Gettin' close t' _where_ , guv'nor?" Both men started as an Irish brogue rang out ahead of them; next moment, a boy in his mid-teens appeared out of the fog, an arrow on the string of a drawn longbow and aimed directly at George's head.

George raised his hands very slowly, Nikola copying – the inventor didn't doubt for a moment that the young man wouldn't hesitate to shoot if given a reason. "Take it easy, son. We don't want any trouble, we just want to talk."

The boy's eyes narrowed, the arrow never wavering from its mark. "An' jus 'oo would yew want t' be talkin' with, now?"

"Elizabeth Lestrade and Sally Watson – we have news of the Doctor." Thank God, Nikola must have sensed that they were in the right place.

The boy started to shake his head, then stopped, looking thoughtful. "Yew give that news t' me, guv', and I'll see it gets d'livered."

Nikola shook his own head firmly. "We need to speak with them directly. Tell them... tell them that John Smith is still alive."

The boy frowned, but then sighed. "All roight, but jus' yew stay where yew are. Yew got others watchin' yew."

George nodded, shoulders sagging in relief. "We're not going anywhere."

* * *

 _November 22, 1895_

 _Faux-Day 21_ _  
_

 _The bad thing about wearing Victorian dresses is, of course, corsets. The good thing is that I can wear my family locket, and it looks like part of the outfit rather than out of place._

 _Our new home is a crowded fit, and we can't stay here for long, but at least we're out of Camden House. That was our first priority after Will and I got back, and right in the nick of time, too; one of the boys_ _ **saw**_ _Moran go into the house after we cleared it! Still gives me shivers to think about it._

"Beth? Missus Watson?"

Beth looked up from her phone at Kelly's call, and followed Sally from the study out into the hall to meet the Irregular.

"What is it, Kelly?" said Sally.

"Two blokes askin' fer yew an' Beth, Missus. One of 'em's American, an' t'other 'as a funny accent, kinda German."

Beth's eyes widened. Who could possibly be asking for _them_? Not Torchwood, surely—she was positive they were still ignorant of Sally's existence. "What did they say?"

"John Smith is still alive."

Beth paled and covered her mouth, irresistibly reminded of the Doctor's human self, her favorite history teacher, and quite possibly one of the kindest and bravest people she'd ever known. But it couldn't be the real John Smith—he'd died. So the message must mean…

"Beth, isn't that…?"

"The Doctor," Beth said hoarsely. "That's the Doctor. His alias…"

Sally frowned. "Kelly, the man with the German accent, what did he look like?"

"Tall, dark, moustache… thin like the Guv'nor." Not Oberstein, then. "T'other one was big, lighter hair, bigger moustache." He shrugged.

Sally turned to Beth. "Anyone you know?"

Beth frowned. "It almost… sounds familiar…" She thought back to the memories the Doctor had shown her, but it had been two years since then, and the only ones she remembered with any clarity were the ones with the blonde girl and with Sherlock and Watson. She shook her head, biting her lip. "I can't… can't remember."

Sally took a deep breath. "Only one thing for it, then."

Kelly grimaced.

Beth exhaled heavily. "We've got to take a chance every now and then," she said softly. These really could be friends of the Doctor—surely he had those all over Time and Space.

Sally nodded. "Take us to them, Kelly."

Kelly's eyes widened. "But, Missus…!"

She gave him a stern look. "If they know about the Doctor, it's worth the risk. We need all the information we can get."

Kelly's expression turned sullen, and Beth sighed. _Teenage boys…_ "All roight, all roight. C'mon." He led them out, and Beth drew her revolver and held it ready, just in case.

Their visitors were sitting on crates in a nearby alley, and looked up at their approach. Both men nodded respectfully. The bigger man was older, the thinner man somewhere in his thirties, and Beth had the strangest feeling that she ought to know exactly who he was.

"Ladies," the older man said, smiling warmly. It was nice to hear an American accent again, she had to admit. "We would shake hands, but under the circumstances…"

Sally nodded slightly in response, studying them.

Beth frowned—not only did she definitely know the younger man, but she had a feeling she recognised the older one as well. "Hello… Who are you?"

"I'm George Westinghouse, and this is Nikola Tesla."

Both girls' mouths fell open. Beth recovered first, eyes wide. "No way." But she _did_ recognise Tesla—he looked almost exactly like the picture she'd had in her world history textbook! "No… really?! _The_ Nikola Tesla?!"

Tesla smiled faintly. "You've heard of me? I'm flattered."

Beth snapped her fingers in excitement as at last she remembered. "That's it! You met the Doctor—I saw that!"

He nodded. "Last March at Niagara Falls – and Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were with him."

Sally sighed. "I'm getting more jealous of my husband all the time…"

Beth bit back a grin, then sobered. "The message. You said the Doctor is still alive?"

Tesla tried to smile. "Battling the Rift currents and cabin fever, but yes, still alive. We only spoke briefly, however, before the connection was severed."

Both girls frowned. "Severed?" said Sally.

"By something or somebody?" said Beth.

Tesla looked very grave. "Somebody, Miss Lestrade, whom I believe you have already met."

Beth paled and tensed—and then shook her head, realising something. "Wait, wait, hold on—are you saying you're _psychic_?"

He nodded. "I was commissioned by Torchwood to invent a machine that reversed the effects of aging—but the Rift matter they gave me to fuel the machine was too volatile. I reverted to a child, and my mental powers greatly enhanced. Fortunately, the Doctor was able to reverse the process, but not completely."

"You were that little boy," Beth murmured. She remembered that well, the little boy with the soulful eyes and the kind heart.

"…why are you here?" Sally asked quietly.

"To help you, Mrs. Watson," said Westinghouse, "any way we can. I don't know about the rest of the world, but America's going to hell in a handbasket—at least here in England you've got a little daylight!"

Beth flinched. She hadn't heard word yet from the United States, but she had wondered how volatile, well, the whole Western Hemisphere would be.

Sally put an arm around her, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "We'd be very grateful for that help."

Beth had to admit—she wouldn't mind a couple more adults around at all. This whole fugitive thing was _scary_.

Westinghouse smiled, a little wearily; Beth thought that she'd probably end up liking him very much. "Our pleasure, ma'am—and I respectfully suggest we don't stay out in the open. Nikola and I ran into a band of Jacobites earlier, who seem to think we're Hanover loyalists."

Sally nodded briskly. "Right. Come on, then, everybody, let's get back indoors."

Beth shivered, suddenly reminded that it was quite cold out. "Fine by me."

* * *

As the two men stood and followed the group, Nikola reached out and gently brushed Sally's thoughts. _Madam, we need to talk…_

Sally gasped and turned to look back at him, eyes wide.

Unfortunately, Beth noticed. "What's wrong?"

"...nothing. Come on." Sally turned back and kept walking, but soon the tentative reply came back: _Are you still there?_

 _Yes, don't be afraid. My apologies for intruding like this._

Sally sighed. _You startled me. It's a bit weird, having someone else talking inside your head. What do you want?_

Nikola hesitated – he'd been considering how best to go about this since leaving Niagara, but the reality was much more awkward than he'd expected. _Well, under normal circumstances, your husband would be the one to tell you…_

Sally took a moment to digest that. _Tell me what?_

Nikola took a deep breath. _That you're pregnant._

"What?!"

"Zed!" Beth caught Sally's elbow as she stumbled. "Sally, what's wrong?!"

"Nothing! I just want to get… back inside…" Sally shook Beth off and strode briskly on alone, shoulders taut, distress and confusion radiating off her. The poor girl... and there was so much more that Nikola couldn't even tell her yet, it was too soon. He just hoped he'd have the chance.

The telepath noticed George looking at him oddly and shrugged, giving his friend a blank look in return. George's eyes narrowed, clearly not deceived for a moment, but held his peace.

* * *

While Will and Beth were away, Sally had often found herself sleeplessly wandering the ground floor of Camden House. Patrol, she'd told herself; she might not be an expert in Frozen Time survival, but she could at least help with sentry duty, while the others got what rest they could. And now they had a new HQ, a new plan of attack, _and_ two more allies – actual adults, at that! – who could clearly be trusted to hold their own in a tight spot, but sleep was still proving stubbornly elusive.

The bitter cold didn't help, of course. All of them were bundled up 24/7 to keep from freezing, since they were anxious not to draw attention by constantly gathering fuel for a fire. Sally didn't like to think of what could eventually happen to life on Earth if both hemispheres were stuck permanently in Winter or Summer...

Her heart missed a beat as a burly figure appeared suddenly in the nearest doorway, then sagged in relief when she recognised Mr. Westinghouse. "What are you doing?" she whispered, sharper than she'd intended.

"Same as you," he whispered back apologetically, "giving up on sleep. Sorry I startled you."

Sally sighed and shook her head. "Doesn't take much these days. Would you like some tea?" Sod the fire rules, a hot cup of _anything_ right now sounded heavenly.

"Please," he smiled, letting her lead the way to the kitchen. Once there, he redeemed himself by coaxing the bloody-minded wood stove into life so she could actually boil the kettle, then perched himself on the edge of a chair, arms resting on his knees. "I've got to get used to this: living in silence. All these boys are like shadows compared to my Junior at the same age, it's uncanny."

"Mm." Sally chose the cleanest of their few mugs and gave them a sparing rinse from the water jug. "I'm an only child, but I did babysit – I know what you mean." She looked at him over her shoulder. "You have a son?"

Mr. Westinghouse... George nodded. "Married himself now, living in Pittsburgh."

Sally echoed the nod slowly, thoughts returning unbidden to what Nikola had told her – could it be...? No, that was ridiculous, she and John had only been together for one night! _Only takes the once,_ her treacherous mind whispered, sounding uncomfortably like one of her old high school teachers. And if it _was_ true...

"He's a smart lad, he'll look after them all right..." George's quiet voice was painfully optimistic.

Sally turned back again with a rueful smile, thankful for the distraction. "Sorry—I zone out a lot lately."

"Understandable." His sympathetic tone made her feel even more like a heel – she couldn't afford to get lost in thought like this, not now!

"It's been... a rough time," she admitted softly, staring down at her hands. "I miss..." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself; she shook her head, blinking hard.

She could sense the empathy in his gaze without looking up. "Marguerite has been staying with George Junior and his wife since I left for Niagara." He sighed. "I tried to cable them from New York before boarding the ship..." His voice became a murmur. "All the lines were down..."

Sally suddenly found it hard to breathe. "I'm sorry," she murmured back, then turned to glare at the still-heating kettle. God, what she wouldn't give to be able to bang something! Making any kind of noise might just help with some of this constant, burning frustration.

She turned back to George, and found him looking strangely awkward. "Watson told me about them, you know," he said abruptly, "before he left."

"Excuse me?" Why was his face turning red, what could he... _oh_...

"Mary, their child... He said he would give… almost anything to have them back. And travelling through Time with the Doctor… I can easily imagine what kind of a temptation that must have been."

Sally could only stare, speechless. Oh, God... _Mary_ had been pregnant?! Why hadn't John told her?

"So if John Watson could fall in love again after all of that, then the woman he lost his heart to would have to be... quite extraordinary."

He was only trying to be kind, she told herself – he couldn't know how much his fatherly smile was making her chest hurt. And thank God, the wretched kettle had finally started whistling, giving her an excuse to turn away again and try to compose herself. "I don't know about that..." she murmured. "I think it's more that John has a bigger heart than most..."

"That as well. And your husband fights like a tiger for the people he loves, Sally, though I'm sure you already knew that." George gave a quiet huff of laughter. "John Watson's not a man to tangle with lightly – Nikola and I got to see that firsthand at Niagara."

Sally managed a faint smile – besides the rare pleasure of hearing her husband complimented, having boiling water and loose tea leaves to focus on was oddly steadying. She should do this more often, no wonder the Japanese used tea ceremonies for stress relief. "The run-in with Torchwood?"

George smiled in thanks as she handed over his mug, taking a careful sip, but sobered quickly. "Nikola wouldn't say much about what he picked up from the agents' thoughts, but what he did say…" His face was grim. "They'd infiltrated the engineering crew at the power station, with no one the wiser, not even me. If those three hadn't arrived when they did, I would have lost my best friend… and without even a clue where to look for him."

Sally sat down opposite with her own cup as she listened, shivering in sympathy. "We've had a run-in with Torchwood, Beth and I. It was... frightening. And disturbing."

"In the future?"

"The past, for her and me, but... yes, in the future from this point in time. I suppose it makes sense now, how closely they'd been watching Sherlock and John..." But that was also what confused Sally the most: if Bernice had known what would happen with the original Torchwood, why had she given in to Sherlock's demands without a word of caution to any of them? Was it possible she hadn't known?

"For how long, though?" George set his mug on the table and leant forward. "Sally, we'll need to start compiling everything we know about Torchwood, and I do mean _everything_ , past, present and future. Even the smallest detail could help us bring all of this to an end that much sooner."

Sally nodded, smiling at the sight of George taking a notebook and pencil from his coat pocket – of course, a good inventor never went anywhere without his tools. "Might as well start now." No time like the present... and right now there wasn't any time _but_ the present.

* * *

It didn't take long for one of the older boys to sniff out the latest brew, and the kitchen rapidly filled up with bleary-eyed Irregulars, Beth and Nikola arriving soon after. With few chairs to go around, most of the boys sat cross-legged on the floor, passing the communal mugs back and forth with an impressive lack of squabbling. It wasn't all tea and gossip, either – quite a few of the Irregulars had something to share about Torchwood and its seemingly huge number of local operatives, information that often just hadn't made any sense before the news of Moriarty's survival.

Right now, it was Sally and Beth's turn, relating what little the Doctor had told them about Torchwood's foundation: the werewolf attack on Victoria in '79.

George flexed his writing hand, looking thoughtful. "So do either of you have any idea of _where_ that happened?"

"Scotland, I think," Sally frowned. "For what it's worth..."

Beth echoed the frown. "I wonder if they have a base there, too."

"Yes..." Nikola said slowly, "'Torchwood' _does_ sound the sort of name you'd give to a property." To the group, "Are there any libraries still around here?"

Charlie, Will's lieutenant, piped up. "The big 'un in Westminster's still there, guv' – s'open all the toime now."

"I can go and research there," Sally was quick to offer, brightening – finally, something suited to her talents! "I'm fast in libraries."

Beth nodded. "And I'll come be your second."

"All roight – Charlie, Nat, yew're goin' with 'em." Will glared at the two boys as they groaned. "Yew ain't got ter do no readin', jus' stay sharp fer trouble!"

Sally glanced sadly over at Beth, who had taken her revolver out and was checking it over – how she hated that any of them had to be _that_ prepared! "Anything else before we head out, then?"

Nikola cleared his throat. "Actually, yes: bring back whatever medical books you can."

Sally frowned. "What?" Medical books couldn't be borrowed, they were reference material – was Nikola actually saying they should steal from a library?!

The telepath spread his hands, gaze flickering over to Sally for just a moment. "None of us have that depth of training, and we can't trust any other doctors, patient confidentiality or not."

Beth looked up from stowing her pistol away. "That's a good point. Will do."

Nikola nodded. "And while that's happening... George, you and I have some other business to attend to." When George gave him an inquiring look, he continued: "Torchwood does know what we look like, unfortunately. If we're not to be a liability on reconnaissance, we'll have to work out some form of disguise –" He stroked his neat moustache regretfully; "which probably means we'll both need a shave!"

Beth and Sally gave both men a sympathetic grin as George's face fell. The poor man's whiskers were impressive, he must have spent years getting them into shape! Then George sighed, nodding in resignation – needs must, after all.

"Welp, all right, you slackers." Beth got to her feet and hauled Sally up out of her chair, who couldn't help groaning; the kitchen was lovely and warm now, and she'd finally been getting comfortable. "Let's get a move on."

* * *

 **Ria:** *hums* _'The boys are back in town...'_ Ahem. Initially, we weren't going to bring George and Nikola to England for the finale (you wouldn't believe how many rewrites we've done for these last episodes), but they soon let us know what they thought about that! Honestly, authors really do get bullied by their characters – just try making them do or say anything they don't feel like!

 **Sky:** And, really, they were very connected to the build-up to the finale—it wouldn't've been fair to leave them out of the final draft anyway! So what surprises will the next chapter bring? Spoilers, sweeties!

Please review!


	8. The Doctor's Wife

**==Chapter 8==**

 **The Doctor's Wife**

 _"Everywhere we go and move on and change, something's lost – something's left behind. You can't ever quite repeat anything..."_

– F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

Sally drew a deep, blissful breath as she and Beth walked through the doors of Westminster Library – the very smell and feel of the place greeted her like an old friend, even if she'd never had the chance to visit this particular library in her own... in her old life. She glanced sideways at Beth and had to smile on seeing that the taller girl was just as starry-eyed. Beth had told her about her visit to the TARDIS library with Sherlock, and Sally had resisted the impulse to raise an eyebrow at what sounded more than a little like a first _date_ , however awkwardly it had ended... Sherlock and John seemed to have that in common, too... She blinked hard, sternly forcing herself to focus; there was no excuse at all for zoning out here.

A slight cough behind the girls told them that Charlie and Nat were now moving off and losing themselves among the shelves. Sally knew better than to look around for them – she'd learned the hard way that most of the Irregulars could hide in the shadow of a railing, which was a very comforting thought right now. If danger approached from any direction in here, the boys would be way ahead of it. Of course, they still needed a way to smuggle any reference books past the armoured Templars on guard out front!

The library, like everywhere else in the city, was a complete melting-pot of classes and centuries, although Sally was glad to see that most of the people here seemed properly respectful of their surroundings. In less perilous circumstances, she would have loved the chance to simply wander around and try to guess the identities of the different readers from their clothing and book choice. She didn't have to wonder long about the identity of one patron, though – a fair-haired, bearded man in tunic and breeches was standing at the front desk, his angry gestures making up for the hushed tone as he argued with the Victorian librarian.

The librarian sighed, weariness audible in his own low voice. "For the love of heaven, Master Shakespeare, how many _more_ times? The Board of Directors has already given their answer: the Library paid good money for those manuscripts, and we do not intend to part with them."

William Shakespeare sounded just as exasperated. "But they are mine, and I have the right to retrieve them! They're no good, they need rewriting!"

The librarian shook his head, answering with acid politeness through clenched teeth, "As has already been explained to you, sir, several times... their not being the final draft makes them collector's editions, and even more valuable! We wish you all the best with the reworking, of course."

The girls stood watching the exchange unnoticed, wide-eyed as Shakespeare threw up his hands in despair. "For God's sake...!"

"Oh my God..." Sally whispered in awe. Well, that was one less thing to be jealous of John for! Was the original Globe Theatre back in Southwark?

"He's so cute..."

Sally couldn't argue with that, but this was hardly the time to start mooning! She sighed, swatting Beth lightly on the shoulder. "Come on, you."

The librarian gave Shakespeare a strained smile. "Not even for His sake, sir. Now, if you will excuse me, there are other patrons here in genuine need of assistance." He turned to the girls as they approached the desk, looking decidedly relieved at the distraction. "Good day, ladies, how may I help you?"

Sally glanced apologetically at Shakespeare, noting in resignation that the man's disgruntled expression had eased slightly at the sight of the new arrivals. Hmph, genius or not, he'd better have the good sense to keep his wandering hands to himself on this occasion. "Hello," she smiled at the librarian. "We're looking for the geography section, please."

"Certainly, madam. You'll want the 910s, upstairs and to the left. Would you like me to show you?"

Sally nodded, taking pity on the man's faintly hopeful expression. "Yes, please." It was very clear from Shakespeare's face that none of the staff here had heard the last of him – and Beth's barely-hidden smirk wasn't helping, either.

The librarian gave her a look of pure gratitude, then inclined his head politely to Shakespeare with a bland smile. "Good day, Master Shakespeare, _do_ come again." He glided out from behind the desk, beckoning an underling over, then led the girls towards the central staircase. Beth's shoulders were shaking by now, only biting back her wide grin when Sally dug a surreptitious elbow into her side with a glare.

Once out of sight of the front desk, the librarian let his regal air slip a fraction, each step up the stairs a good deal more forceful than necessary, for all the world as if he were treading on a certain playwright's foot.

"Regular, is he?" Beth asked sympathetically.

The librarian heaved a deep sigh, an accent much like the Doctor's becoming audible beneath the cultured tones. "I swear, I'm at my wits' end with the fellow! What does he expect me to do, exactly: browbeat the Directors _and_ the rest of the Authors' Guild into submission on his behalf?"

"Mm. I'm sure it must be difficult for him as well, though." Having written a few pieces herself, Sally could easily understand Shakespeare's frustration!

The librarian nodded wearily. "If it were up to me alone, I'd be sorely tempted just to let him have them! Sadly, that's far more trouble than my job is worth." He slowed as they reached the top of the stairs, checking the signs at the end of each bookcase. "Speaking of which..." He turned the corner into the 910 shelves. "Here we are: geography. Will there be anything else?"

"Ah, no, actually," Sally smiled gratefully. "Thank you for the help... and good luck to you." She would have been glad to give the poor man a longer break from debating intellectual property rights, but they just couldn't afford to have any of the library staff know exactly what they were looking for. They'd have to be very careful to put everything back when they'd finished.

"And to you, ladies." The librarian bowed and left them alone, looking a lot better for having let off some steam.

Sally sighed and turned to Beth. "Well... let's get to work."

* * *

Beth closed her latest volume and dropped it on the teetering piles of already-skimmed books, grimacing. "Sally, I don't know how we're supposed to find it here. Atlases and travel guides and travel journals and not a single mention of the zedding estate!"

"Well, I don't know where else it could be!" It wasn't Sally's fault the Doctor rarely bothered to tell anyone anything useful about his past! Maybe they should try looking in the history shelves... God, who was she kidding, _what_ history? It was all current events now, an entire subsection of the Dewey Decimal system had been made obsolete...

"Hello?" A different female voice interrupted Sally's thoughts, and a respectably dressed blonde woman appeared around the corner, only a few years older than Sally herself, cradling an armful of books. "Forgive the intrusion, ladies," she smiled politely. "Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

Sally stood up hastily, blushing at being discovered sitting on the floor – drat, she'd thought it would take her a lot longer to go native. "Ah, yes, please..." At this point, she would have seriously considered help from William Wallace, as long as he knew how to read! "I'm so sorry, we didn't mean to disturb you."

"Not at all, I'd be happy to help." The woman came nearer and set her own books aside, kneeling to inspect the stacks of books they'd been looking through, her smile turning fond. "Oh, this takes me back. What exactly were you looking for?"

"A Scottish estate." Who _was_ this woman? Sally could suddenly have sworn she had seen her before, but she couldn't think where... She certainly wasn't one of the librarians, she was dressed just a little too finely, and even female staff members wouldn't carry a reticule while working. "We'd heard about it and we were curious to learn more."

"But we are having rather a difficult time of it," Beth put in ruefully.

The woman looked thoughtful. "Well, it might help your search if you were in the right section – any estate records would probably be in the land registries, rather than general geography."

Sally and Beth looked at each other, then Beth looked away, laughing silently. Sally shook her head, sighing. "Of course. Thank you."

The woman smiled kindly. "Don't mention it, my dear, I know how it can be. And I believe there's a directory not too far away..." She gathered her books again, and led the girls through the maze of shelves to where a list of the 900s was nailed to the wall with a map. "Here we are."

Sally couldn't help a relieved laugh. "Oh, you've saved us so much frustration. Thank you very much, Miss, ah..."

The woman echoed the laugh, obviously flattered. "Oh, it seems an age since I was last called that!" She held out her free hand to Sally. "Mrs. Mary Sholto; it's a pleasure to meet you both. It isn't often I meet other women interested in reading anything but poetry and romance novels!"

Both girls were frozen, staring at their new acquaintance, white-faced. Sally finally succeeded in lifting a trembling hand and took Mary's for a moment – oh God... she could feel the _warmth_ through the glove... why couldn't the woman at least have had _cold_ hands, like her? "Oh, I really love hist... geography," she murmured as she let go again, hoping desperately she didn't look as sick as she felt – smiling was _definitely_ not an option right now. "And Lizzie here loves adventure stories."

Beth nodded slowly, wide eyes still fixed on Mary's face. "They're the best."

"I'm Sally, Sally Sparrow, and this is my cousin." Was that really her voice? It sounded so weird...

Mary nodded to Beth. "Delighted, my dear." Suddenly, she hesitated and glanced back over her shoulder, apparently speaking to the empty air. "Yes, Sundar, I know." She turned back to the puzzled girls, smiling apologetically. "And I really must be going, my husband will be starting to fret. But please..." She juggled her books for a moment and took a visiting card from her reticule, offering it to Sally. "If you're ever in Norwood, do drop in and see us. Thaddeus and I have so few visitors."

Sally took the card mechanically, barely keeping from dropping it – the harmless little slip of cardboard was like a burning coal on her fingertips.

"We'd love to," Beth said quickly, mercifully saving Sally from having to answer. "It was nice meeting you."

"Likewise," Mary smiled sincerely. "I hope to see you again soon. Good day, ladies."

"Bye..." Sally just managed to murmur as Mary turned away. Anything more might have come out as a scream... but then both girls did a double-take. A slim, dark-skinned man in a Victorian suit and a turban had just silently emerged from further down the shelves. He waited courteously for Mary to pass, who gave him a nod of thanks, then he glided after her, treading as noiselessly as a cat.

Beth turned slowly to Sally, who was still staring at the corner Mary and her... bodyguard? had disappeared around. "Well... should we just get it over with?"

Sally shivered, tears finally spilling over as she blinked dazedly. She'd known that Frozen Time was bringing the dead back... but she'd never imagined... "...married to _Sholto_..." she whispered miserably. The lump in her throat was almost choking her – she'd just been granted her fondest, most private wish... and it had been the very worst moment of her life.

Beth wrapped her arms around Sally, her own eyes moist. "I know, honey... I know..." And she really did know, Sally realised with a pang – seeing Mycroft murdered... and then finding Arthur West _alive_ at Woolwich, the very person whose murder had started all this craziness in the first place, would have been just as horrible. And John... oh God... no, she could never tell him about Mary, never, that would be too cruel! He was going to get enough of a shock when he came back as it was...

* * *

"So Missus Watson goes back up to the feller at the desk, lookin' loike she's about to lose it all over the place." Charlie grinned at his riveted audience, putting on a shaky falsetto. "An' she sez 'Pardon me, sir, but can yew tell me the way to the Ladies' Room?' Then afore 'e can open 'is gob, rolls 'er eyes back in 'er 'ead an' crumples like an 'ouse o' cards!" He and Nat snickered. "Cor, the bloke wen' whoite as a sheet!"

Nat reached into his bag and took out a large leather-bound reference book with gold lettering on the cover and held it up for everyone in the kitchen to see: 'The Complete Reference Guide to Medicine and Health' by Richard Babcock. "Easiest job we ever done!" he announced smugly.

There were grins and backslaps all round from the other boys, Sally receiving her share of praise with a faint rueful smile. "I wasn't exactly feeling the best..." She still wasn't sure she entirely approved, even if it was in a good cause.

Beth had been giving Sally a look of sympathy, understanding how, yes, it felt wrong to steal books from a library. But now she was studying the older girl more closely—they might not know each other very well yet, but Beth had a feeling that Sally wouldn't make an admission like that unless something was wrong. She'd wondered at the time, in the library, if Sally's sudden sickness hadn't completely been because of who they'd run into...

George's frown of concern deepened on seeing that Nikola was wearing his old familiar 'I told you so' look, but closed his mouth at his friend's warning thought: _Not now._ "So, did you manage to find anything about the Scottish Torchwood?"

Thanks to Mary... Shaking off that thought, Sally pulled out a notebook, flipped it open to her notes, and started to read them off. "The Torchwood Estate is located on Rannoch Moor in Perthshire. Many of the MacLeishes, the family who owned it, came to a bad end… The house was extensively rebuilt and then further revised… The Estate was deserted by the widow of the last MacLeish and the Queen bought it… It's also said to be haunted by ghosts, werewolves, and… seems to be a variety of supposedly supernatural goings-on…"

"Which is perfect for the organisation," Beth murmured.

Sally hummed in agreement. "There is more, but those are the highlights."

George nodded. "They're good, I'll grant them that. Hiding in plain sight..."

"Yeah," Nat frowned, "but wot if some tripper or ghost 'unter wanders through the wrong door? They carn't make everyone disappear!"

"They don' 'ave to," Will put in. "Retcon, remember? Someb'dy sees somethin' they shouldn't, they wake up back at the lusher with a sore 'ead an' blame it on the beer."

The discussion continued for a long time, thrashing out different ideas, until they finally broke for food and rest. Nikola and George had already changed their usual suits for 18th century clothing, and with a reluctant shave for both men and a little help from some makeup that the boys had swiped from a local theatre, Sally and Beth had to admit they would have had trouble picking the two out in a crowd. Hopefully, any Torchwood agents would, too, because as far as the advance scouts could tell, the layout of 'Old' London had settled; serious reconnaissance could finally begin.

* * *

Full of impatience and nervous energy, Beth bounded into the room she shared with Sally, who hastily set down the stolen medical book she'd been reading. "All right, number one: if I don't have something to do—really _do_ —soon, I'll go crazy. Number two: why _don't_ I have anything to do?" It had already been almost two weeks since she'd returned the Bruce-Partington plans to Woolwich, and it felt as though they'd been sitting on their hands ever since! They needed to be _doing_ something—Sherlock and Watson were in the clutches of a monster, and they were doing nothing to help them! "Number three: why the _zed_ are we sitting around doing nothing?!"

Sally grinned nervously. "That sounded like three ways of saying the same thing…"

A lump began to rise in the American girl's throat. "Well, we'd better figure something out _soon_ , because… I need to be out there."

Sally nodded, sympathetic but distracted, fingers tapping unconsciously on the book's cover.

Feeling a bit better for having let off some steam, Beth sighed. "All right, what's up?"

The older girl hesitated, looking decidedly awkward. "Beth, you know how I was feeling sick at the library?"

 _Oh no, I knew it, what's wrong?!_ Beth nodded apprehensively.

Sally took a deep breath. "Well, it's not the first time, and… there's been other stuff as well. I've been really tired, but I haven't been able to sleep—which I thought was just because of all the stress of Time freezing…"

Beth's eyes went wide—she was the second oldest of her mother's five kids; she should have seen this coming. "Oh my gosh," she breathed. "Sally… are you…?"

Sally looked down, blushing. "He said I was—Nikola, I mean—I just didn't want… I mean, I hoped he was wrong… oh God, that sounds awful!"

Beth blushed a little herself. _What am I supposed to say? None of my other friends ever got pregnant! Mama was always happy… and never in the kind of circumstances we're in right now_. She took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully. "Ho-kay. Wow. All right."

Sally drew her knees up, hugging herself. She looked small and young and scared—Beth couldn't even imagine. "I can't have a baby _now_ ," she said miserably, "we've already got enough to worry about! And John…" Her voice broke, tears starting to fall. "John doesn't even know!"

Heart breaking for her, Beth sat on the bed and moved to wrap her arms around Sally. "I'm sorry," she breathed. She couldn't imagine being pregnant alone and for the first time like this, and so soon after being married, too.

Sally hugged her back, breath hitching, voice small: "I'm scared, Beth..."

Beth tightened her hold. "It'll be okay," she murmured. Her voice broke just a little—she was scared, too. Terrified, more like. "It has to be."

"And what's going to happen when… when the baby comes?" Sally whispered. "We can't call a doctor—and I don't know about you, but I couldn't even watch that sort of thing on TV…"

Beth shook her head slowly. "Me neither, but…" She grimaced; the labour and birth in a roughly nineteenth century setting, without epidurals and a million other things that would make it safer and easier, was not going to be fun. And there was the very real possibility that something could go wrong… "We'll read up on it, and just… well, we're going to have to make it work."

"I just… never thought it'd be like this…"

Beth rubbed Sally's arms comfortingly, trying to infuse them with some warmth. "I don't think anybody did," she murmured.

Sally took a deep, shaky breath. "So... what are we going to do?"

Beth made no move to get up. "Well, we needed to get you and the little boys out to the country, anyway. Find somewhere safe, a better home base for us all, and then you stay put."

Sally winced. Beth could tell that she didn't like the idea one bit, and she didn't blame her. But the older girl nodded reluctantly. "I guess I won't be much of a help here for much longer—won't even be able to run."

Beth bit her lip. The last thing either of them needed to deal with was pregnancy-induced depression. "Heeey." She rested her head on Sally's shoulder, grateful that they were already close-enough friends that such gestures of affection were no longer awkward. "Don't think it'll be a picnic for me, either, being the only girl in a pack of teenage boys on the move."

Sighing, Sally rested her head on Beth's. "That was the one… vaguely good thing in all this… no one was telling me I couldn't do anything to help because I'm a female! And now I'm going to be stuck on the bloody sidelines because of this _stupid_ body…" She gave a despairing laugh. "I feel like the ditzy blondes in all those old movies who can't do anything in a crisis except faint and sprain their ankles!"

Beth squeezed Sally gently. "Hey, it's not your fault you got pregnant—well, actually, it _is_ , but… I know what you mean. But you're not ditzy, Sally—you are _really_ smart, and you'll figure out how to… I don't know, blur the sidelines. I don't know. But you'll be okay." Beth was positive that Sally was the smartest woman she'd ever known.

Sally gave her a watery smile. "Wish I was that confident…" She sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Beth said gently. "You've already been through a ton of zed, and if I was in your place, I'd be scared to death."

Sally nodded, falsely bright. "Yeah, that sums it up pretty well!"

Beth shrugged and sighed. "You have the right…"

Sally grinned ruefully. "And you have the right to tell me to shut up and stop whining."

"Shh." Beth grinned back, exhaled slowly, and closed her eyes.

"Good idea," Sally murmured.

Beth felt the other girl shift slightly, presumably so Beth could lie down properly. Her eyes snapped open. "I'm really not sleepy, trust me." Oh, zed, that had come out a lot more, well, _final_ than she'd meant it to.

Sally held up her hands. "Okay, no problem!" She stretched out, no doubt the stress of the last expedition starting to take its toll. "More room for those who are."

Sighing, Beth stretched out beside her. "I'm sorry… I haven't been sleeping well, either," she said quietly. In her dreams, she saw Moriarty taunting and torturing Sherlock while she was helpless to act… and she saw Mycroft die, again and again.

Sally gave her a look of pure empathy. "I know," she said softly, "but you're right, Beth: it is going to be okay…"

Beth closed her eyes again and breathed, "It really has to be, doesn't it?" A tear unexpectedly escaped her.

Sally reached out and drew Beth into her arms. "Yeah, it does—because of all the things I can stand at the moment…" Her voice turned grim. "...the thought of John and I raising our daughter in _this_ isn't one of them."

Beth shuddered. "Definitely not. It's so wrong… _Everything_ is so wrong…" She frowned suddenly. "Hold on, you just said 'daughter.' How do you know it's a girl?!"

Sally frowned herself, blinking. "Um… I'm not sure. That's… weird."

"I wonder… if… um…" Beth blushed. Golly, _awkward_. "...conceiving… a baby in the TARDIS would make it… different. Special. You're sure it's a girl?"

"Yes! I've no idea _why_ … but every time I think about the baby… I just… can't picture it as a boy, at all—I keep seeing a girl." Then it was Sally's turn to register what Beth just said. "Wait, different how?"

Beth shook her head, wide-eyed. "Dunno. But… being exposed to temporal energy like that…" She shrugged. "I should think it's bound to have some kind of effect. Doesn't have to be bad."

Sally closed her eyes and groaned. "God, I hope not! It'd be hard enough carrying an ordinary kid…" She grinned shakily. "If she's got an extra pair of feet, I'm done for."

"We'll put that on your tombstone," Beth deadpanned: "'Killed by her baby's four feet.'"

Sally giggled. "No one's ever going to believe that!"

"Then you really _haven't_ been around. It's positively _wild_ out there."

"Mm." Sally closed her eyes again. "Pterodactyls at the Tower," she murmured sleepily.

"And," Beth added softly, "just about every English monarch ever taking up residence in Buckingham Palace…" More softly still: "'Night, Sally."

Sally must have already been more than half asleep, because she murmured: "…night, John…"

Tears sprang to Beth's eyes, and she raised her hand to her mouth, biting it to cry silently. They _had_ to restore Time. They had to get Dr. Watson back to his family. She didn't want to imagine what life would be like if they failed.

* * *

Watson watched the latest pair of guards who had brought his food from under his brows, trying not to look like he was staring, no easy task – unless he were dreaming, one of the guards was David Wiggins!

The chief Irregular had grown from the street urchin depicted in _The Sign of the Four_ into a thoughtful, mature young man who'd never forgotten where he came from, or that working for Holmes had shown him that he wasn't trapped there. During Holmes's three-year absence, even while occupied with furthering his own career as a lawyer, Wiggins had taken care to keep in touch with Watson and the younger boys, partly taking on the detective's mantle of father figure and occasional employer.

Now, however, there was no sign of recognition in the young man's expression; Watson couldn't even make eye contact with him. Well, if Wiggins had managed to infiltrate Torchwood, Watson would just have to be equally patient and do his part to keep from rousing anyone else's suspicions. Perhaps picking a fight the next time he came in would be good cover for passing a message? He'd have to find something to write with first, of course...

He had to make a decided effort not to let his features relax into a smile before the pair closed the door after them – seeing the face of an old friend, however briefly, had been a positive tonic to his morale – but his good humour faded rapidly as a different figure appeared in the doorway: Colonel Moran. Tensing, Watson rose to his feet, staring haughtily at the old soldier, whom he hadn't seen since the events that had led to Holmes's first return to London.

"Doctor," Moran smiled genially, closing the door behind him and looking Watson up and down. "You don't look much the worse for wear."

Watson smiled back mirthlessly. "Too kind, Colonel," he answered, doing his best to copy Holmes's old manner when dealing with unpleasant callers at Baker Street. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He knew perfectly well that the act didn't fool anyone else, but he would take whatever small comfort an old memory afforded him. Moriarty's visit to Watson's cell had been the first of many, the second to tell him of Mycroft's death... and the very worst part about it was that Watson had no way of knowing from Holmes's voice on the next 'update' as to whether or not Moriarty had informed his protégé.

"All in good time, Doctor." Moran leaned against the wall and took a flat silver case from inside his coat. "Would you care for a cigar? I don't imagine you're allowed them often these days."

Watson's lips tightened, the memory of the last time he'd seen Holmes smoking still painfully fresh. "Thank you, no, I've rather lost my taste for them."

Moran raised an amused eyebrow. "Ah, well, I hope you don't mind if I do." He proceeded to light one and took a puff. "By the by, you won't get very far with young Wiggins there. He doesn't know you. Didn't the Professor tell you?"

"It must have slipped his mind," Watson answered through clenched teeth, trying not to let his cruel disappointment show – for a moment, he'd dared to hope that no one at Torchwood knew the man's true identity.

Moran smirked slightly around his cigar. "Oh, I rather thought he would have. Well, it seems that, in this new version of reality, you and Holmes don't properly exist. Hanged if I understand why, but although you're still alive here, there are no traces of your old lives. No little brother to Mycroft Holmes, no Major Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." He chuckled, shaking his head at Watson's paling face. "Rum business, this Frozen Time. Sure you won't have a cigar? Or at least a nip of brandy?" He held out a hip flask. "If you don't mind my saying so, you look as though you could use it."

Watson exhaled forcefully through his nose, irritation starting to eclipse his dismay. "What do you want, Moran? If you're looking for a new whist partner, I'm afraid I'll have to decline." As if he could have forgotten what had happened to Ronald Adair.

Moran chuckled again and put the flask away. "And I haven't had much time of late to play. No, Doctor, I have a... proposition, you might say. You see, I hear that Mrs. Watson is doing very well these days."

Watson's heart missed a beat. Moriarty _knew_... knew about Sally! How...? No, never mind that – what was _he_ going to do about it? Torn between conflicting desires to know more and to keep his wife safe at all costs, Watson eventually reasoned that denial would accomplish nothing; he must simply take care not to volunteer any new information. "Where is she?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and steady, bracing himself for what would most likely be an unpleasant answer.

"Well, there's the rub: she's living in Norwood, in a house you know well, I think, and she's not precisely Mrs. Watson. In this world, she's Mrs. Sholto."

Mrs. _Sholto..._ Watson felt as if he'd been punched in the gut, mind reeling as he finally understood. _Mary..._

He realised with horror that he'd spoken aloud when Moran answered, "I can't imagine you wouldn't like to see her again." Thank God, it seemed the Colonel hadn't seen anything more in Watson's reaction than he ought – doubly fortunate, because he hadn't the least idea how to answer!

Thanks to the Doctor's warning, Watson's feelings about seeing Mary again would have been mixed even if there wasn't a catch to this offer, which there most undoubtedly was. All the same, the longer he hesitated, the more suspicious Moran would become; Watson pulled himself together enough to respond guardedly, "Why should you care?"

"To be frank, Doctor, I've never had anything against you. My quarrel was with—" Moran's face darkened briefly; "Holmes. You had your commanding officer, and I had mine. And I don't mind helping out a fellow army man from time to time."

Watson's lips twitched, wondering if the word 'friend' was actually in the Colonel's vocabulary at all. "And your... general? Does this generous offer meet with his approval?"

Moran took his cigar out of his mouth, looking at it thoughtfully. "Well, I had to talk him around to the idea, but he seemed willing enough." He looked up again. "You lost the war, Watson. There's no shame in admitting it, or any need to make yourself a martyr for it into the bargain."

Watson looked down, shaking his head in grim amusement. A martyr... What had _his_ sacrifice been compared to Holmes's? "But as you say, Colonel, Mary is married to Sholto this time, she's never even met me. Forgive me if I fail to see..." Then his fists clenched, eyes blazing in fury as he realised what Moran was getting at. "You _bastard_."

The Colonel smirked. "Well, if you don't like that option, I could always find another way to get rid of the little sod."

"In exchange for what?" Watson growled, remaining where he was with difficulty.

Moran's gaze became deadly serious. "Walk away, Watson. And stay away. There's nothing for you here. Your friend is hellbent on destroying himself – well, let him. You did your best; there's nothing more you can do."

Watson's lip curled, giving Moran a look of pure contempt. "Except to sell my own soul for the illusion of freedom?" His voice was low, dangerously soft. "Get. Out."

Moran put out his cigar and slowly shook his head. "You'd set your pride in having the moral high ground over your love for the woman you married?"

Watson shook his own head, answering quietly, "What I want doesn't matter, Moran." And what he longed for most, he would die before asking it of this black-hearted monster. "Mary has given her heart to another..." His voice became a murmur, eyes downcast; "perhaps the better man, in the end." Sholto might not be handsome, but he was kind and honourable, the first to insist that Mary should receive her share of the Agra treasure. Even in Frozen Time, his wife would have a far better quality of life at Pondicherry Lodge than she had ever known with Watson. The best he could do for her now was to wish her, if not blissfully happy, then at least contented.

Moran snorted. "I doubt that very much, but I suppose it's your funeral, after all."

Watson didn't deign to answer, just gave Moran a pointed look, waiting for him to leave.

Moran sighed, straightened and opened the door, then paused. "Very well, then – one last chance. The Lestrade girl. You can still walk away, and I shall stop hunting her." And with that parting shot, he was gone, leaving the door standing wide open.

Watson was left standing rooted to the spot, dumbfounded, as much by the sight of the open door as Moran's final offer. At last, he managed to spur himself forward and slowly approached the door, peering cautiously out into the hallway – it was deserted. For a long moment, he hesitated, fear, hope and suspicion warring in his breast... and he had all but made up his mind to put the Colonel's promise to the test, when the old soldier's last words came back to him: ' _I_ shall stop hunting her.' Moran had never guaranteed Beth's safety, there was nothing to stop Moriarty from sending others after her... and if Watson should lead them to wherever she was hiding... This was a trap, it had to be, and Watson was the bait! He couldn't even be sure if Sally was with Beth, and he didn't dare put his wife in any more danger, either. Besides, if he left... there would be no more reports about Holmes from Moriarty... and God help him, even this slow torture was better than not knowing anything at all.

Watson bowed his head, gripping the door frame, his knuckles white... then slammed the door shut and rested his forehead on it, tears finally starting to well up. Stumbling back to the table, he sank down onto a chair and, for the first time since his capture, began to pray, harder than he ever had in his life, shoulders shaking.

 _Be well, my love... be safe... I'm_ _ **so**_ _sorry... Dear Father in Heaven, watch over them, watch over us all..._

* * *

 **Ria:** *hugs Watson and Sally* Kudos to KIT-10, who deduced Mary's resurrection four chapters ago! *applause*

Bear in mind that by Victorian standards, Mary had already been on the shelf a long time when she met Watson at 27. Being practical as well as romantic, it made sense that, with a _little_ encouragement from Mrs. Forrester, she would seriously consider a proposal from a wealthy, compassionate man only 10 years her senior, with whom she had a surprising amount in common, like a fondness for all things Indian. Besides, I can imagine she felt somewhat guilty at having indirectly gotten Thaddeus arrested for his brother's murder, even temporarily! As for Jonathan Small and Tonga, they also remain at liberty, living in comfort off their rightful, if ill-gotten gains.

 **Sky:** Still hurts, though, for sure, and it's going to hurt even more later. =(

But kudos to KIT-10 for also deducing that the Watson baby would be like River! Golly, you're genre savvy! *bows*

What an emotional rollercoaster, though... and it's not going to get any better, especially with Moriarty and Holmes returning next chapter. Stay tuned, and please review!


	9. Robin

**==Chapter 9==**

 **Robin**

" _Remember, Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."_ _  
_― Stephen King

 _Let me see... telegraph posts sixty yards apart, passing one approximately every two seconds... Thirty yards a second equals eighteen hundred a minute, so... one hundred and eight thousand yards an hour, divide that into miles and we have... sixty? No, sixty-one, sixty-one point... point... something. Damn._

Holmes sighed, staring morosely out of the train carriage window as the posts continued to flicker past at what might be termed an impressive speed; then again, they were only hauling two carriages this time. Being the Napoleon of Paperwork – which Holmes had taken to calling Moriarty in the privacy of his own thoughts – Torchwood's director had no need to tolerate the usual delays and inconveniences associated with this method of travel. As far as Holmes could see, the only unusual aspect of this trip was Moriarty ordering that his protégé accompany him.

The detective didn't doubt his mentor's assertion that this would be 'an enlightening experience', but whatever new lesson the Professor intended him to learn, he was certain it would be no more pleasant than all the rest. He slumped further down in his leather armchair, gaze turning from the window to travel around the luxuriously furnished sitting room. He had to admit, Moriarty having his own private car did make such forced journeys a shade more tolerable; still, he might be able to appreciate his surroundings a little more if he knew more about their destination than its being somewhere north of London. Working out how fast they were going was rather pointless when he had no idea of how far they had left to go...

" _We are going well." Holmes gazed out the carriage window then glanced down at his watch. "Fifty-three and a half miles an hour, if I'm not mistaken."_

" _Oh, come now, Holmes," Watson scoffed as he lit his cigar, "even you can't know that without seeing the quarter mile posts!"_

 _The detective looked smug. "The telegraph posts on this line are sixty yards apart – a simple calculation." Actually, he'd been working it out for the last ten minutes on his newspaper with a stub of pencil, but Watson didn't need to know that..._

Holmes blinked, startled. For a moment, he could have sworn... but of course it was just his own reflection in the glass. Heaven only knew where Watson had been moved to since their last conversation, he hadn't thought it wise to inquire – not that it mattered, of course, he certainly had no desire to pay the man a visit. He stared back out of the window, trying to focus on the passing scenery, with little success. "He left me no choice," he found himself muttering sullenly, hands tightening on the arms of his chair. "What did he expect?"

"Talking to oneself is a dreadful habit, my dear Holmes." Moriarty had returned from the end carriage.

Holmes shrugged, not bothering to turn his head. "I fail to see why you would object, Professor – eavesdropping can be a highly instructive activity."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow as he came into the detective's field of vision. "And occasionally useless and depressing." Taking the chair opposite Holmes, he crossed one leg over the other, hands clasped on his knee, appearing completely at his ease. "Have you heard the news of the new Sheriff of Nottingham?"

Curiosity instantly aroused, Holmes shook his head – as if he'd been in a position to hear intelligence of that kind. "And whom did their copious Majesties consider a suitable replacement?" If the old stories were at all accurate, he could imagine that the previous sheriff would have been long overdue for retirement.

Moriarty gave a dry smile. "Of all people, Oliver Cromwell."

Holmes blinked. "An... interesting choice."

"Mm. Apparently, he has the ruthlessness their Majesties require in dealing with Robin of Locksley. The 'Merry Men of the Greenwood' are not faring well at all."

"So the tales are more than mere legend," Holmes remarked lightly, trying to ignore his growing sinking feeling. "I had wondered." If Robin Hood had been a boyhood favourite of his, what of it? The days of such naïve hero worship were well and truly over.

Moriarty nodded. "Tales of that sort generally are. One really must wonder at the British predilection for making heroic figures out of criminals. By all accounts, Locksley directly opposed the reigning law."

"A law administered by grasping, corrupt officials –" Holmes countered swiftly; "hardly the epitome of what most would deem true justice."

"And he attempts to play benefactor to the poor and destitute... Is the law, then, the villain in this instance?"

"Do you refer to the law itself, or its agents?" The distinction was a fine one, perhaps, but nevertheless existed.

Moriarty arched an amused eyebrow. "The law is nothing more than what it dictates, is that not so?"

"A simplistic viewpoint," Holmes answered slowly, sensing a trap, "but essentially correct."

"And what the law dictates in this instance is to tax those who can barely afford to keep roofs over their heads and to hunt down a man who is attempting, outside of the law, to aid them."

Holmes's brow furrowed. Why was Moriarty suddenly appearing to support the opposing argument? "Well, the law is both written by and dictates to its agents; still, one had to exist before the other. Therefore, one could argue that it is the author of the law that is the true villain, and the law itself either an unwitting accessory, or a willing accomplice," he concluded triumphantly – he couldn't help feeling just a touch of pride, however minor the victory.

Moriarty smiled faintly. "Then I would question its use entirely, but that will do for another time. Theory aside, we are heading into a highly volatile situation in Nottingham, one that must be resolved before England has a small but very real civil war on its hands."

The detective's eyes narrowed, kicking himself for not recognising the trap earlier. "I suspected you had more in mind than a mere abstract debate."

Moriarty raised both eyebrows, responding mildly, "Clever lad. We are going to Nottingham Castle to mediate a compromise between Cromwell and Locksley. Something _must_ be done, lest outlaw and sheriff spend eternity locked in a battle of wits."

Holmes's eyebrows were also lifting. "And you imagine either party would agree to such a proposition?"

"Do you suppose that none can be found which would benefit both parties?"

"On the contrary – but to succeed in convincing both sides of the mutual benefits will be by far the greater challenge." Holmes didn't envy Moriarty that task in the slightest.

"Mm." Moriarty's returning smile would have put the Mona Lisa to shame. "I suggest then, that you plan carefully what you will say to them."

Holmes resisted the urge to swear – he could hardly blame Moriarty when he'd practically walked right into that one all on his own – and nodded slowly, the sinking feeling rapidly deepening. "Indeed."

* * *

Moriarty could not have asked for a better opportunity to involve his pupil in politics. Naturally, Holmes had been difficult to teach every step of the way—he answered questions put to him well enough in the discussions Moriarty launched, but he offered no initiative of his own, no enthusiasm or ambition. The boy was in danger of boring himself to death through sheer stubborn refusal to actively engage with the fascinating new world around him.

Nevertheless, it was with mixed feelings that Moriarty entered this particular affair. There was one topic that he and Moran never discussed by mutual silent consent, and that was the actual practices and tactics of the British army. Quite apart from his own loathsome father and brother, both of whom had served abroad, Moriarty disliked the army on grounds that approached a sense of morality. In his naïve and ideal youth, he had believed it to be one of the many aspects of British society in dire need of massive reform.

On those grounds alone, he harboured a private dislike for Oliver Cromwell. On more personal grounds, James Moriarty was of an Anglo-Irish family, born of a purely Irish mother. As such, he had inherited more than a bit of his people's contempt for Cromwell.

However, he could not fault the man's efficiency and neatness. The Great Hall bore a large desk at the far end where an official chair would otherwise have been. Cromwell himself, dressed in a plain black suit, sat at the desk, engrossed in a report but looking up when Moriarty and Holmes were escorted into the room. "Welcome, my lords—pray be seated." He waved a hand at the chairs before the desk, not bothering to rise, returning his attention to the report.

Moriarty remained standing. "We are here to negotiate a compromise between you, Lord Sheriff," he said evenly, "and Robin of Locksley."

Cromwell looked at him oddly, then in understanding. "I can see you never received my last missive to Whitehall, sir. My apologies for the wasted journey, but I stand in no need of a mediator."

"Dear me," Moriarty said mildly. "Surely you have not executed Locksley already?" He knew well that Cromwell had not; the Torchwood agents placed in Nottingham Castle would have reported such to him upon disembarkation from the train, and no such messages had been received. Nevertheless, he saw Holmes tense in his peripheral vision. He had long known—and been amused—that Robin Hood had been a boyhood favourite of the detective.

"Not yet, but that will soon be rectified." Cromwell looked satisfied with a job well done. Moriarty admitted in the privacy of his own thoughts that the man at least was one of the few politicians in existence who honestly believed that he was doing right by his country and the world. Such men were certainly too rare. "Locksley is in prison, abandoned by his men and awaiting his sentence."

Moriarty nodded slowly, digesting that. This would be a different scenario than he had previously imagined, but it should still suffice. "Lord Sheriff, I beg of you to give the man one last chance."

Cromwell sighed the sigh of an official inconvenienced by a lesser official. "Really, sir, you needn't waste your time; Locksley will never—"

Moriarty rarely made power plays against men of political significance. For this once, he made an exception, crossing the short distance to the desk and placing both palms on the parchment-crowded surface. "You would be wise to heed my wishes, Lord Sheriff," he said coldly; "I could have another man sitting at that desk before you could begin to comprehend what was happening around you." The role of the British Government Personified no longer belonged to Mycroft Holmes.

Moriarty removed his hands from the desk. "And my wish right now is that my protégé attempts to find a more palatable solution to the mess you have insisted upon making."

He saw Holmes start to grimace and then stop, no doubt revolted at hearing himself called Moriarty's protégé before another. Well, the boy would simply have to accustom himself to the idea; Moriarty had said, after all, that he would not coddle him. Holmes cleared his throat. "And a man of your vision, Lord Sheriff, is surely loath to waste any potential resource. Locksley may yet be convinced that his best interests lie in working within the law."

Cromwell eyed the two of them and shook his head. "That is doubtful, sir, but if you are so keen to fail, so be it." He nodded to their escorting guard, who stepped forward again.

"Very gracious, Lord Sheriff," Moriarty said dryly. He nodded and turned away—Cromwell was not worth the bow that Holmes was currently giving him.

This would be interesting.

* * *

Following the guard down the dungeon steps, Holmes was forcibly reminded of his visit to Bedlam with Shakespeare: a cold, cramped, dimly-lit space, stinking of excrement and fear – the only missing element was the noise. It was a mercy he wasn't claustrophobic, but he was still having to take quiet, bracing breaths as he tried unsuccessfully not to dwell on what had happened to Peter Streete. No Carrionites here, he told himself sternly, and there was still a chance that he might achieve better results than that this time.

The guard reached the first cell door and started to unlock it. "Take care, m'lords, he's a cunning devil."

"I'm certain we shall be all right," Moriarty responded dryly, nodding in dismissal as he entered the cell ahead of Holmes.

Locksley was already on his feet, eyes narrowed against the growing glare of the torchlight. If the man had entertained any notions of escape, Holmes noted grimly, his first hurdle would have been the large number of chains with which he was fettered, anchored to the wall at several points. Cromwell was clearly taking no chances before the execution.

The outlaw was of a height with the other two, ragged clothes all but hanging off his battered frame, worn thin from combined hardship and hunger; but Locksley's piercing gaze as he took in the newcomers left a dismayed Holmes in no doubt that the archer's spirit remained a force to be reckoned with. Dear God – persuading such a man to set aside his principles for what someone like Moriarty considered the greater good... If Holmes succeeded, it would be a miracle; nevertheless, he had to try.

It would be marginally easier, perhaps, if his childhood hero wasn't looking them both over with such thinly veiled contempt. "Who are you?"

"My name is of no concern to you." Moriarty nodded to Holmes. "This is the man sent by the Crown to sit in judgement and render a fair and just verdict."

Holmes stepped forward as Locksley snorted sardonically, doing his best to pretend Moriarty wasn't there, and desperately wishing that _he_ were anywhere else at that moment. "My… associate neglects to mention, Master Locksley, that I am here first and foremost as a mediator. Before receiving word of your arrest, I was tasked with overseeing negotiations between you and the new sheriff." Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Moriarty moving back to lean against the wall, hands pressed together and watching intently.

Locksley arched a mocking eyebrow. "Oh, that should end well – wish you luck with that."

Holmes bit his lip on the inside, forcing himself to reply calmly, "Cromwell might be a glorified bureaucrat, but he is capable of realising where his best interests lie. We may still reach an outcome which benefits both sides… but only if you are also willing to negotiate."

The outlaw smiled mirthlessly, shaking his head. "You haven't seen what he does, have you?" On the contrary – what Holmes could deduce in the poor light about Locksley's treatment since his arrival was making the detective's chest hurt. How long had it truly taken Cromwell to decide that extracting a promise of cooperation from his chief adversary was a waste of time? "Men like that don't change."

"But how will you know for certain unless you are prepared to at least converse with the man?" Holmes was painfully aware of just how feeble he sounded.

Locksley... Robin opened his mouth, then paused, studying Holmes for a long moment. "Don't you think I _have_? Heaven knows I've tried talking to him." The outlaw shook his head again sadly. "He'll never listen. He'll ensure my voice will be drowned out."

Holmes narrowed his eyes, choosing a different approach. "As opposed to simply sitting here in a cell, awaiting sentence? How do you imagine that will benefit anyone?"

Robin's eyes gleamed with anger. "Selling myself out would hardly achieve that end!"

Holmes stiffened, the outlaw's words sounding only too familiar. "Well, you surely cannot believe that your death would do so!"

Robin suddenly looked very weary, shoulders drooping under the weight of the shackles. "No _good_ choice to make at this point, is there?" His gaze travelled to Moriarty, then slowly back to Holmes, and the detective's insides twisted at the growing empathy in Locksley's expression – he didn't want to know just how far the man could see in this case.

Letting his frustration finally show in his face, Holmes answered softly, "If you choose to live, Master Locksley, you may still help your people. But no good will be achieved by choosing to die. Cromwell's no fool – a public execution is the last thing he wants." Putting Locksley to death before witnesses would only serve to turn a legend into a martyr. "Your death will be behind closed doors, unmarked, unmourned, inspiring no-one."

Robin lifted his chin, eyes anguished but his expression one of calm resignation, answering just as softly: "Then so be it."

Holmes closed his eyes for a moment, chest tightening. "Very well," he said quietly, hoping his voice would not quiver. "I shall inform the Lord Sheriff of your decision." Turning back to Moriarty, still struggling to master his cruel disappointment, he was taken aback to see that the Professor's brow was faintly creased, as if he'd been concentrating hard... and Holmes suddenly realised what Beth and Will's success in France should have told him long ago: despite being lost in the Rift, the TARDIS's translation must still be working! And whatever tongue he and Locksley had just been conversing in, it was one _Moriarty_ _didn't know_.

Heart pounding, the detective paused as if another thought had just occurred, then turned back to Robin, his tone cold and dignified. "He hasn't understood us. Look angry and speak quickly: how can I get word to your men from here? To Marian?"

Robin's eyes widened in genuine surprise, which swiftly became a look of fury. He clenched his fists and growled, "One of the scullions. Put bread in your wine."

"Consider it done," Holmes answered in the same contemptuous voice, curling his lip for added effect. Turning his back again, he approached the door, chin lifted haughtily. "Open it," he told the guard, making an effort to speak English this time.

The guard obeyed, Moriarty taking the lead once more, and Holmes was pleased to note that his mentor was still wearing the look of subtle frustration. Following him out, the detective allowed his own earlier frustration and disappointment to return to his eyes; he would have to tread with extreme caution now. Holmes was under no illusions, the chance of the other outlaws actually mounting a successful rescue was all but non-existent, even if he got a message to them in time; and with Moriarty watching his every move, any step out of line could backfire horribly, and not only on himself...

* * *

"I did try to tell you, my lords." Cromwell waved an inviting hand at the simple meal of flatbread and cheese set before them. One thing you could say for the man, Holmes admitted grudgingly: he genuinely believed that living frugally was a virtue, and not only for the poor. This hall had clearly seen nothing resembling a banquet since the new sheriff took up residence. "An outlaw will never renounce his lawless ways, not after a lifetime spent wallowing in iniquity. If my predecessor had not been such an indulgent, blundering fool..." Cromwell shook his head and signalled the waiting servant to pour the wine.

"Yes," Moriarty said dryly, "such a pity. What can we expect to happen now?"

"My lords are invited to the execution, of course."

Holmes, who had just taken a bite of bread, inhaled sharply and choked on a crumb. Coughing helplessly, eyes watering, he reached for his cup, then suddenly realised the opportunity before him. He took a careful swallow of wine, then let the bread fall from his mouth into the cup, keeping hold of it at chest height until the bread soaked up enough liquid to sink.

"...a priest is currently with Locksley to hear his confession. That shall no doubt take quite some time – are you well, my lord?" Cromwell asked, while Moriarty only gave his protégé a curious look.

"Quite well, Lord Sheriff, thank you," Holmes croaked, still trying to clear his throat. He took another gulp of wine, steeling himself to ask: "If I may inquire, how do you intend to carry out Locksley's sentence?"

"A French invention: the guillotine." Cromwell allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "So much swifter and neater than the rope... and less chance of trickery."

Moriarty raised both eyebrows, but remained silent.

Holmes, on the other hand, couldn't keep himself from replying innocently, "And so much more humane."

Moriarty gave a ghost of a sigh, but Cromwell remained imperturbable. "When my lords are finished, you shall be shown to the apartment you may have until the time of the execution."

Moriarty nodded politely. "Thank you, Lord Sheriff."

Holmes merely echoed the nod, not trusting himself to say anything more.

* * *

 _(Scene rating: V)_

Moriarty was well aware that his pupil was up to _something_ : Sherlock Holmes might have been inscrutable to mere mortals, but to Moriarty, with or without psychic abilities, the boy's emotions were an open book. The professor did not think that the boy would be able to help Locksley, but it would be interesting to see if anything came of his efforts. Holmes had, after all, once managed to destroy a full half of Moriarty's criminal empire; surely the detective had it in him to outmaneuver Cromwell. Moriarty certainly would not mind if the sheriff's plans were thwarted.

After a long, tedious wait, they received the summons for the execution. Holmes was not prepared in the slightest, but he made a brave face of it. Moriarty simply wondered how long that facade would last.

While awaiting the dreaded summons, Holmes had had ample time to question whether he'd truly done the right thing in sending that signal; but as he'd heard no disturbance of any kind in the castle since, he could only assume that the message had failed to reach Robin's men in time. And as he and Moriarty entered the main courtyard, he couldn't help feeling in combined dismay and relief that that was for the best: Cromwell's parsimony clearly didn't extend to defence. All the castle guards stationed around the courtyard and battlements were armed with what appeared to be the very latest model of army rifle – even without the disadvantages of medieval weaponry, the other outlaws would never have stood a chance.

A shudder ran through the detective, his eyes unwillingly drawn to the brand new guillotine in the centre of the courtyard; the raised blade glinted in the torchlight, a single fang in a pair of gaping jaws... Holmes blinked, tearing his gaze away to the prisoner standing in chains on the platform before it. Robin hadn't so much as glanced in the newcomers' direction, gaze fixed on Cromwell, head still held high in proud defiance.

Cromwell rose from his chair on the dais, looking inordinately pleased with himself. "Ah, my lords, welcome. Before we proceed, I should like to make an announcement."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed, having a fair notion of what was to come. "And pray what might that be?"

Cromwell nodded to Holmes, smiling benevolently. "I must thank for your assistance, it was most invaluable." Holmes felt the blood draining from his face. "The 'Merry Men of the Greenwood' have all been arrested, and their sentence carried out."

Robin's face was equally pale, his voice a hoarse whisper, "... you lie..."

"Also, at last... the sinful beauty, Lady Marian." Cromwell nodded to the guards flanking Robin. "The child in her womb was a regrettable loss..."

" _No!_ " Robin screamed, struggling furiously as the guards dragged him forward. "No, you monster!"

Holmes had been frozen to the spot with horror as Cromwell spoke, but the cruel satisfaction in the sheriff's voice and the sheer anguish in Robin's was suddenly too much, and something inside him snapped. Without even a conscious thought, he turned and lashed out at the nearest armed guard, trying to wrench the rifle out of his hands.

Oh _damn_. Moriarty had not quite foreseen Holmes's reaction, but Cromwell had taken things too far. Mentioning not only Maid Marian but also an unborn child was unnecessarily sadistic—Cromwell's intentions were not nearly as righteous as he believed them to be.

The unoccupied soldiers aimed their firearms at Holmes and the man with whom he was struggling. Moriarty signaled for one of them to approach the combatants—the boy had to be stopped from doing something even more colossally stupid than he had already done. The soldier stepped forward and delivered a sharp jab with the butt of his rifle to Holmes's back, directly between the shoulder-blades.

Holmes gasped in pain and slumped to the ground, stunned, his opponent planting a knee in his gut for good measure as he went down.

"Enough!" Moriarty said sharply. He stepped forward and gently lifted his protégé. Poor foolish, _caring_ boy... "Steady," he murmured.

Locksley hadn't ceased fighting his guards, even managing to lay one of them flat, but was soon overwhelmed and forced into position at the guillotine, the lunette quickly locked around his neck.

"Please..." Holmes croaked, struggling for breath, "... _don't_..."

Cromwell shook his head implacably, signalling to his men. "Justice must be served."

The blade dropped.

Holmes turned his head away, he couldn't bear to watch... A dry sob escaped him at the sound of the falling stroke, tearless eyes burning. He'd failed him... _he'd failed them all_...

Moriarty squeezed Holmes's shoulder gently, then turned his furious gaze upon the sheriff. "Your justice be hanged, Cromwell," he said icily, "and you with it."

The man stood completely unmoved, responding almost as coldly, "As you say, my lord: _my_ justice. Their Majesties granted me the authority to do as I saw fit here, knowing full well what those methods would be. Locksley was a traitor to the crown; he received a traitor's death—" his lip curled—"and a far more merciful one than he deserved."

Moriarty smiled murderously—what he wouldn't have given to have Moran here at this moment. "Their Majesties, then, are fools, and you with them. The other executions were revenge on Locksley, pure and simple. Were I not burdened currently with my protégé, I would shoot you myself. Good day." He turned away and supported Holmes out of the courtyard. Two of the guards broke away from the others and followed him, two of his own agents with the sense to know that Cromwell couldn't be trusted at this point, and their director might have need of them.

Dazed and trembling, Holmes felt much too shaken to object to Moriarty's assistance. Even with that steadying arm around his shoulders, it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other as they left the castle behind them... and the terrible, senseless end of England's last remaining hero.

* * *

 **Sky:** Okay. I know. That was cruel. That was really, truly cruel. Believe me, it was upsetting to write. For the life of me, I can't even remember why we decided to do this, only that... well... Sherlock. Character development. *hugs him protectively* But yeah. Still upsetting.  
Especially because Robin Hood was probably one of my earliest heroes, not unlike the Great Detective himself... or the Doctor. Speaking of which, this chapter was first scripted out months at least before "Robots of Sherwood" aired, so our... my... portrayal was not really based on Mark Gatiss's writing or Tom Riley's acting, but rather the Robin Hood I'd grown up on, Richard Greene. (Look him up on YouTube; you won't regret it.)

We also see a bit more backstory on Moriarty, and a slightly gentler side, which was great to get to write. Like Sherlock Holmes, he's got to be complex, with layers and layers to peel back and discover, because... they're both so brilliant. Look at what they've done with their lives. No way either man can possibly be as static and wooden as sometimes people make them out to be.

Anyway, hold on in there, folks. More rough rides to come. And keep holding on to your Kleenex boxes.


	10. The End of Innocence

**==Chapter 10==**

 **The End of Innocence**

" _Her dreams led her to the darkest parts of London where he couldn't follow and keep her safe. His dreams had ceased to exist long ago."_  
― Lorraine Heath, Surrender to the Devil

Moriarty had said little to Holmes since leaving the castle, waiting until the train was well away from Nottingham before clearing his throat and saying quietly, "I believe I owe you an apology."

Slumped back in his armchair, Holmes slowly looked up, still white-faced, eyes haunted; he could still hear Robin's last anguished screams before the blade fell... _Watson's cry of sheer agony ending abruptly as the doctor blacked out from the pain..._

Moriarty's growl was an unexpected but merciful distraction. "Events... _Cromwell_... went much further than I had anticipated. I underestimated him, and I am sorry."

Holmes's lip curled, giving his mentor a look of pure loathing. "Why?" At the very least, Moriarty could easily have acted to halt Locksley's execution, and he hadn't so much as lifted a finger.

Moriarty favoured him with a faint, dry smile. "Because I made several grave errors. Do appreciate this; I have not apologised to anyone in rather a long time."

"Is that so?" Holmes felt much too drained to sound more than faintly ironic. "If you expect me to believe," he went on coldly, "that you felt any sort of compassion for Cromwell's victims..."

"You of all people should know that I am incapable of feeling compassion. I deal in logic, and there was none in the murder of the Lady Marian and her child."

Holmes flinched involuntarily, then was suddenly struck by a wicked impulse. "All the same, Professor..." He gave Moriarty a humourless smile. "I think perhaps Cromwell is to be congratulated."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why so?"

"Well, he deliberately crossed the Napoleon of Crime and lived to tell the tale, did he not?" For the moment, anyhow...

Moriarty arched an enigmatic eyebrow, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled. "And yet I believe that Cromwell's tenure as Sheriff is about to end rather prematurely."

The detective closed his eyes a moment, digesting the news, although finding it considerably less satisfactory than he'd hoped. "Dear me. One hopes his new position will be more suited to a man of his talents." In the iron cage above the castle battlements, feeding the carrion birds... A pity Holmes wouldn't be there to see it.

Moriarty's faint smile was audible. "I think he shall find it so."

Holmes hummed absently in acknowledgement, blindly gazing out of the window. His thoughts had returned to Cromwell thanking the detective for his help... perhaps it was mere denial on Holmes's part, but something about that just didn't sit right...

He wasn't even aware of Moriarty's scrutiny until the Professor finally inquired, "Is something wrong?"

"In particular?" Holmes answered sourly, much less appreciative of this interruption, then sighed; Moriarty was hardly an ideal sounding board, but he supposed it would have to suffice. "Cromwell lied, I feel certain of it."

"About your involvement in the arrests, yes. But why are you so certain?"

Holmes barely heard him, mind racing. That message, the bread in Holmes's wine... bread and wine... the Last Supper. Locksley wasn't calling for help, he was telling his band to stay away, to watch over his wife and child... he'd meant to sacrifice himself to protect them... but if Cromwell's staff had reported the message to the sheriff, the other outlaws could never have received it, which had to mean... "Locksley's confession," he said finally, heavily. "It took too long, his couldn't have been the only one the priest was hearing. The other outlaws had already been captured."

Moriarty nodded. "Just so."

Holmes's eyes narrowed at the glimmer of approval in his mentor's. "And you already knew that."

"It was not terribly difficult to deduce."

 _You bastard..._ "And if I had not?" Holmes asked, keeping his tone soft with difficulty. "Would you have allowed me to believe that their blood was on my hands?"

"It still is," Moriarty answered, just as softly. "Up until the very last moment, you did not intervene at all, and by then it was far too late for everyone. You were the accomplice, Cromwell the unwitting accessory. He believed they deserved to die, and yet, by your own argument, you _knew_ they did not."

Holmes bit his lip; despite the temptation, pointing out that he _had_ tried to help the outlaws would be most unwise, he must at least pretend to acknowledge the 'truth' of Moriarty's argument. "And the moral of the tale is...?" he said bleakly.

Moriarty shrugged slightly. "Sometimes a solution cannot be found, and difficult choices must be made." He looked Holmes in the eye, tone growing stern. "And if you ever attempt again to do something so colossally foolish as that little display in the courtyard, I shan't intervene."

Holmes met his gaze coolly. "Indeed? I was under the strong impression you at least wanted me alive."

Moriarty raised a warning eyebrow. "I wouldn't be adverse to you spending a decent stretch in a cell to calm down."

Holmes favoured Moriarty with a sour smile, unimpressed. "An excellent notion, Professor – I do find myself in need of rest just now." He rose carefully, still feeling a little unsteady, and gave a mocking bow. "I pray you will excuse me."

He turned away, intent on making his way to the end car – he didn't care if there was a couch or similar in there or not, just as long as it _didn't_ have Moriarty – when a completely different voice came from where his mentor sat: "Very well, my boy. Class dismissed."

Holmes froze. That voice... nervous and high-pitched, one that he hadn't heard in over 25 years... He turned back, deeply puzzled as to why Moriarty would mimic his old mathematics teacher... but the gleam in his mentor's eyes was not merely amused, it was almost _exultant_... and Holmes turned white as he made the connection, mind reeling. Christmas of '69, Moriarty emerging from the Rift... and Professor Charles Newman had begun teaching at Holmes's school in 18 _70_...

The corner of Moriarty's mouth lifted slightly. "You were once _such_ a scintillating pupil..."

Holmes reached out blindly for the back of the chair he'd just vacated, the nausea he'd felt at the execution back in full force. Nine-year-old Sherlock, so young, so _grateful_ for even one teacher who seemed to understand his need to question everything... some use of disguise, no doubt, but the passing of over two decades had clearly been enough in itself to keep Holmes from thinking any perceived likeness between the two... the _one_... was more than mere coincidence...

He gradually became aware that Moriarty had also risen, looking genuinely alarmed. "Dear me. Perhaps you should see one of the doctors when we arrive home."

Holmes flinched backwards, the show of concern only serving to sicken him further. All that time... befriended and counselled by the very man who had tried to murder him as an adult... If he searched his memories long enough, how much more of Moriarty's influence would he find from beyond the Rift? ...no, he would _not_ look, he didn't want to know!

Forcing himself to come back to the present, he swept Moriarty a look of pure scorn, eyes burning with fury and betrayal. " _Go to hell_ ," he growled, and stalked away, barely resisting the urge to break into a run – but after all, where was there to run to? Holmes had thrown away his present, his future... and now Moriarty had ensured that he would never be able to remember his past without seeing the Professor in every shadow.

* * *

"Welcome back, Director." Moriarty looked up from his paperwork at the strangely-accented English to see one of the new scientists from Italy standing in the door of his office.

"Thank you. Do come in," Moriarty answered graciously in perfect Latin. The man entered. "This will not take but a moment of your time: I have a simple request."

"Yes, sir?" All of history happening at once had an unexpected bonus for Torchwood: Roman scientists. Uninhibited by a collapse of their Empire and aided by Victorian technology, they had soared above the developments of the formerly current era and brought science to an unprecedented peak with technology that matched the standards of a full century into the non-existent future. Moriarty had quickly recruited several of these splendid minds to meet the challenges Torchwood faced. A pity that he could not manage to persuade Leonardo da Vinci to come to England, but the man was content to remain on the Continent, delighted with the work his countrymen were doing.

"I should like Sherlock Holmes to be involved in the development of the Time enclosures." Frozen Time had a peculiar set of disadvantages. No one aged, which also meant that while no one died of old age, no one was _born_ , either. This rule extended to animals and plants, which made necessities such as food, wood, and fiber increasingly scarce. Ironically, for anyone to survive Frozen Time, Time would have to be reintroduced in a controlled environment to replenish resources. "Would this in any way hinder your team?"

The Roman's eyes widened. "On the contrary, sir, we'd be glad to have him… if you're certain he'll not be a liability. No offence, Director," he added hastily, "but we are at a most delicate stage of testing, and… well, he does have a certain… reputation here at the Institute, if you take my meaning."

Moriarty smiled faintly, amused. "It's a little-known fact that, before quitting university to become a detective, Sherlock Holmes was working on his degree in chemistry. Had he not gone into the investigative field, I have no doubt that he still should have become renowned as a scientist. He will not be a liability."

The other man nodded, looking more reassured. "Thank you, sir. Would you like me to invite him personally?"

"Yes, I think so, thank you. How is the project progressing?"

The scientist brightened. "Oh, most promising, Director. Once we'd worked out the equations for the Rift energy patterns, all the problems we'd been having gauging the temporal variance almost seemed to solve themselves!"

Moriarty hummed thoughtfully. "Promising indeed. You must not forget, however, that you are dealing with one of the most dangerous substances there is." The debacle at Niagara Falls had taught him that—Rift matter was not at all to be taken lightly. He brightened, though, at the thought of finally having something to which Holmes could apply himself. The boy had not taken either the end result of the Nottingham trip or the revelation on the train at all well—only to be expected, but still. And, unfortunately, Moriarty was too occupied with keeping the civilised world from falling to pieces to meet often with his protégé. This project, at least, would keep Holmes from boredom, the most important thing at the moment until Moriarty could devote more time to him.

"Well, my thanks for the acceptance and the news. If you could see Mr. Holmes as soon as possible, I should greatly appreciate it. You will most likely find him in his quarters."

The other man bowed. "Very good, sir."

* * *

 _Two 'months' later..._

"Professor." Moran entered Moriarty's private laboratory with a caution born of experience. There was never any knowing what the man might be working on, and salvaged alien technology didn't always take kindly to being poked and prodded by human scientists.

Moriarty looked up from where he stood at the main table, tinkering with a device that calculated distances and routes in space, taken from a crashed extraterrestrial vessel – sadly, the ship had been too badly damaged to ever fly again. "Ah, Colonel." He smiled. "I have something for you that I think you'll appreciate very much."

"Sir?" Moran ventured nearer, looking dubiously at the clutter.

Somewhat to Moriarty's chagrin, he had never kept track entirely of what extraterrestrial – or in this case, futuristic – technology his lieutenant had been exposed to. He picked up the phone that had been found on Watson when he'd first been brought in. "I don't believe we've discussed this before. Do you have any ideas as to what this might be?"

Moran frowned slightly – he did at least know that, thank you. "Yes, sir, it's a portable telephone."

The professor nodded. "Better still, it stores the telephone number of a certain girl from the future."

The Colonel's eyes gleamed, a cruel smile beginning to spread. "And this phone may be used to track the other?"

Moriarty smiled in return. "Indeed it may. I have need of the 'phone here, but _this_ —" he gestured to another machine on the table—"is a relay device that will receive the data from the 'phone and send it to _this_." He picked up a small, phone-like device for which the technicians did not yet have a name, and handed it to Moran. "There is a map on that device, and it should give you the girl's location as soon as I begin the program on the phone."

Moran accepted the device with a nod of thanks, grip tightening on the case in surprise when it vibrated in his hand, the map Moriarty had described appearing on the screen.

Moriarty looked over at the map, which began to hone in on the Surrey side of London's outskirts. " _Excellent_."

Moran's grin could now be described as downright vicious. "Permission to go out hunting, Professor."

"With my blessing, Colonel," Moriarty purred. There were few things more satisfying than seeing his tiger ready and willing and sure of victory.

Slipping the device carefully into his coat pocket, Moran strode back out of the lab.

* * *

 _(Scene rating: D)_

Visits to London always involved foraging for food. At least, that was what Beth and the boys prefered to call it; more properly, they mostly stole said food. Beth's justification was that the little ones and Sally certainly deserved to eat as much as any human in London, and when Time was restored, it wouldn't matter anyway. (It still didn't entirely sit well with her, but she knew it needed to be done.)

On this particular visit to London, a bobby saw her snatching from a food stall when the owner had stepped out for a minute. Cursing her luck, she turned and ran. The bobby followed and wasted no time in alerting two nearby Roman soldiers, who eagerly joined the pursuit. They were hard to lose, but Beth had developed a street boy's talent for weaving through a city and losing her would-be captors. But by the time she'd done it, she was in a very dark, very derelict part of town, and she did not have a very strong idea of where she was.

She stopped for a moment to catch her breath and try to get her bearings. "Oh, terrific," she muttered.

The next moment, she felt a sharp prick at the back of her neck, gasped, stiffened, and swore—she'd been shot with a dart. She ducked for cover, grasping at the dart and managing to get a hold of it. She gasped again as she pulled it out and hit the ground, scrambling for the shelter of abandoned junk so prevalent in this part of town… but rather more slowly than she ought to be.

 _Poison_. _Oh, zed, poison_. At least it wasn't the stuff from _The Sign of the Four_ —she'd already be dead were that the case. Still, poison was poison. And she was lost and alone in a deserted part of London—none of the Irregulars could have any idea where she was. _Shh, no, calm down,_ _ **focus**_.

A whistled tune pierced the silence, slow and echoing: the first line of "Ring Around the Roses," accompanied by slow, heavy footsteps sounding closer and closer.

An icy terror wrapped itself around her heart, and she shrunk further back into the darkness. But her own breath suddenly sounded too laboured, too loud, and it was getting harder to breathe.

The second line was whistled even more slowly, footsteps falling silent.

 _Oh no, where is he?!_ Heart hammering, she drew her revolver, her movements aggravatingly sluggish.

A familiar rough, leering voice came from somewhere above her, sounding amused. "It's only Hide-and-Seek, little one—" Beth startled back with a scream, and the voice turned darker, menacing—"if _I can't see you_."

 _Moran_. Trembling, she lifted her gun, but her fingers and thumb fumbled uselessly, unable to cock it.

He gave a deep chuckle. "Shall we dance, my dear?" There was a whizzing noise, and brick shattered in the wall behind her.

She cried out and scrambled to her left, then struggled to stand. Her limbs felt increasingly leaden and weak, and she swayed and nearly fell sideways, only just catching herself on a stack of crates. She couldn't stay upright. She was lightheaded and shaking and weary, and her legs didn't want to support her. Trying to step forward, she collapsed to the ground, unable to hold herself up any longer.

Moran's voice was suddenly much closer, at ground level, a quiet, mocking sing-song. "We all… fall…" He appeared out of the shadows, eyes gleaming with something that looked very much like _hunger_ , evil leer widening on the last word: "Down…"

* * *

 **Sky:** Poor Beth... *hugs her tightly* Yes, we know that's an awful cliffhanger, but there's a good reason for that, and there are two ways to find out what that reason is. You can wait for the next chapter, which will fill you in on exactly what happens... or you can read that last scene _in full_ on Tumblr. Yes, the scene continues. But, in the end, we decided that it wasn't strictly necessary to have the full thing posted here; you may have some inkling as to why. On Tumblr, it's called "The End of Innocence: Extended Scene" at our blog, wholmesproductions dot tumblr dot com. Please be aware that it's the darkest and most disturbing scene to date in _Children of Time_.

On a different note, kudos to Ria for the opening scene. *also hugs Sherlock* I think it's one of my favorite CoT scenes ever now. Poor little Sherlock, he had no idea...

 **Ria:** The idea for making Moriarty part of Sherlock's childhood came up quite a long time after we decided to bring him back via the Rift, but it just seemed to make so much sense! Moriarty's obsession (let's be honest!) with Holmes, combined with the need to keep out of the way of his younger self until after Reichenbach – not to mention that the Torchwood Institute didn't exist until 1879. Makes you wonder how much of a part he played in its original foundation...


	11. Safe and Sound

**==Chapter 11==**

 **Safe and Sound**

 _When someone is going through a storm, your silent presence is more powerful than a million, empty words._

– Thema Davis

Sally flopped down gratefully onto the bottom step of the grand staircase, clutching her coat around her against the front hall's freezing draughts – she would swear these corridors were getting longer all the time. Then again, the baby getting _bigger_ all the time might possibly have something to do with it! Maybe she should ask the boys to build her a scooter, that might keep them out of trouble for a while... She grinned ruefully at a suit of armour standing nearby, shaking her head – who was she kidding?

Sally had spent less than an hour at 221B in all, but that was still enough for her to see what an amazing – and no doubt thankless – job Mrs. Hudson had done in looking after John and Sherlock. Besides, the Irregulars all had their own stories to tell about the landlady's kindness: letting them sleep on her sitting room sofa during the worst nights of winter, mending their ragged clothes and returning them with the pockets full of biscuits, and waving away their mumbled thank-yous with a stern frown that didn't fool anyone.

What Sally wouldn't have given for the smaller boys to mind _her_ that well! It didn't seem fair: she was the Team Mom now, just like George was the Team Dad... although his actually being a parent probably helped. The boys had warmed up to their new father figure in no time, while Nikola had been highly amused to find himself cast as something of a mad uncle.

The youngest Irregulars had been no trouble during their escape to the country, knowing just how important it was to get out of the city unnoticed; Will and Charlie had already scouted out this abandoned manor, Rosewood Hall, deep in the wilds of Warwickshire, and though George was no architect, he seemed reasonably sure it was structurally sound enough to live in. Nikola was delighted to discover an empty stable block out the back, which he immediately claimed as a workshop. Sally had been very reluctant to settle for such an obvious hiding place, but their options were rather limited, and at least the house and grounds were big enough that they weren't all banging elbows any more.

She sighed, wincing at the distant noise of a rowdy game of Blind Man's Bluff somewhere in the east wing; now that the little ones had some stability back in their lives, all angelic behaviour had vanished without trace! To be fair, though, they were doing their best not to make noise in the grounds – with bands of marauders roaming the countryside, they still had to repel the occasional raid, and Nikola's alarm system had barely given them enough warning the last time...

Sally jumped at the sudden clamour of that very same alarm bell going off above her head in the stairwell – someone was approaching! Sending out the urgent thought, _Nikola, we've got company!_ she hauled herself to her feet and half-strode, half-waddled (there really was no other word for it) along the passage to the kitchen as boys started appearing from all over and heading to their posts, taking her own pistol from her coat pocket. George meant well, but Nikola had far fewer medieval notions about 'a woman's place', and had soon persuaded his friend to teach Sally how to handle a gun. She might not be a crack shot like Beth yet, but she could at least put a hole in a rain barrel at fifty paces on a good day.

She'd already reached the kitchen by the time Nikola finally answered, _False alarm, everyone... Beth and the others are back early._ The telepath's 'voice' sounded more than a little strained, but Sally was too thankful to take much notice, sagging in relief. "Oh, thank God... Jimmy, put your knife _away_ , that table doesn't need any more carvings."

The freckled six-year-old grinned at her unrepentantly as the faint sound of a horse and cart reached their ears, then his forehead wrinkled, eyes wide. "Blimey, mum, yer don' think...?"

Sally's heart leapt into her mouth. _John._ Hardly daring to let herself hope, she hurried back to the front door, which the others had left standing open... and then gasped in dismay, any hope for news of her husband swept aside. "Beth! Oh my God..." Her friend looked like she'd been put through a mangle, barely staying on her feet as she headed inside, a blood-stained bandage around her neck, clutching the blanket wrapped around her in a death grip, eyes wide and vacant...

Beth flinched at Sally's voice, the first time anyone had directly addressed her since she and the boys had left London, and sidestepped hastily. She felt more than a pang of guilt for doing it, but she wasn't ready to face anyone yet, even her best friend. "Sorry, have to go wash up," she mumbled.

Nat came running up to her, his grin audible as he called, "Beth, wot'd yew get? Can we 'ave us some music later?"

"Not today," Beth muttered as she moved past him. _Zed,_ why couldn't they just leave her alone? She just wanted to be alone now...

Sally had stopped dead, mouth open. As Beth disappeared into the house, she turned to Will, who'd just climbed down from the cart and given the reins to Charlie, horrified expression asking the question for her: _What the hell happened?!_

Will strode up to her, looking grimmer than Sally had ever seen him. "Moran caught up with 'er," he murmured, face dark with anger. "Bastard decided t' _play_ with 'er first."

Sally's heart seemed to stop, blood draining from her face. "I'll _kill_ him..." she managed to choke out, then looked hopefully at Will – maybe the boys already had?

Will shook his head, jaw clenched. "'E got away. I don't... I don't know... e'zactly... wot 'e did to 'er." Sally's chest ached at the lost look creeping into his eyes; this couldn't be any easier for him, he and Beth really had become like brother and sister since France. "'Ardly said a word since she woke up from 'er faint. Wouldn' even let any'un get close 'cept on the cart."

Sally's lips tightened, taking a deep breath. "Right, okay..." This was not going to be fun... She reached up and patted Will on the shoulder, somewhat awkwardly – being mother for the oldest boys still felt a bit weird. "I'll find her, you go get Nikola."

* * *

In the bathroom for the master suite, Beth stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a ghost. No. Worse than that. She looked like a zombie. Her face looked bloodless, her neck was wrapped up in a bloody bandage, and everything about her just looked... dead.

Just like she felt.

She slowly removed the blanket and set it aside. Her shirt was ruined, buttons cut off, strips of fabric hanging uselessly—and even if it wasn't ruined, she wouldn't wear it or the jacket ever again, anyway. She then peeled off the bandage, slowly, carefully, and winced: her neck was going to be scarred for a long time. The empty spot where her locket should have been stopped her cold; it had been one of her comforts in the past few months, and now it was gone forever, and it was a family treasure, she'd _adored_ that locket...

Lathering up at the washbasin, she scrubbed away the dried blood from her neck and moved on to her face, scrubbing hard at her lips. _Moran's mouth, rough and demanding and hot, claiming her lips..._ She moved back down, down to her chest, scrubbing viciously at an odd sensation she couldn't remove no matter how hard she tried... _Large hands ripping open her damaged shirt, skin on skin... NO!_

Sally tapped nervously at the bathroom door. "...Beth?" _Please be okay,_ _ **please**_ _…_

Beth froze, cringing. No, not now, not now, she wasn't _ready_. "...what?"

"I-I thought you might need some fresh clothes?" Something helpful Sally _could_ do, at least; even if Beth was taller, they were both the same shirt size. She just wished she could offer something better than a skirt for the rest. "I can leave them outside the door if you want..."

Beth's breath hitched, Sally's kindness worming its way past what defences she had. "Th-thank..." Breath hitching again, she swallowed the rising lump in her throat and felt an insatiable need to clean herself a second time, there was a sudden, crawling sensation all over her skin that was about to drive her mad. She started to scrub herself again, fiercely, trying desperately to stop the tears from coming. She didn't want to cry—she wasn't sure what would happen if she cried, but she didn't want to find out. It _would_ hurt, and she didn't want to go through that pain, didn't want to feel anything ever again... but her breath wouldn't stop hitching, treacherous body... no, _please_...

Sally desperately wracked her brain for something else to say, anything to inject a bit of normalcy into the moment. "Oh, guess what? Nikola's finished his first torch prototype! The boys had a great time testing it –" She was ruefully aware that she'd started to babble, but she wasn't about to stop herself; "actually, it came in really handy, cause Nat found a new secret room the other day, we think it must be a priest hole, it's got a little altar and everything..."

The first sob came then, unwillingly. Beth _wanted_ to dive back into life here—it wasn't all bad, they managed to have some happy moments here in spite of everything—but she also didn't want to so much as _exist_ anymore. She didn't know how she could, didn't know how she could ever shake off the memory of Moran's hands, his mouth, his voice...

She shrieked in frustration, pounding the washbasin, not caring when it began to hurt... the pain as a welcome distraction from her thoughts...

"Beth!" Heart hammering in fright, Sally tried the door – unlocked, thank God – barging straight in while sending out the urgent thought, sharp with panic: _Nikola, get the_ _ **hell**_ _over here!_ Bloody typical, the one time they _really_ needed him...

Beth ignored Sally, continuing to pound the sink until she was crying from the pain, which had crossed over from a welcome distraction into agony. She'd gone and broken something now, just like an idiot... She bit lightly on her throbbing hand to help stand the pain—and to keep from screaming.

"Beth, no!" A horrified Sally grabbed at Beth's arm, her own eyes filling with tears. "Please, just _stop_!"

In almost one movement, Beth shuddered, dropped her throbbing hand, whipped around to face Sally, and recoiled from her touch. She drew her tattered shirt back together again as she shrank back against the sink—she didn't want to feel anyone's touch ever again, not even Sally's.

Sally paled as she realised her mistake. "Oh God... Beth, I'm sorry!" Stupid, stupid, _stupid_... "Okay, um, just... just wait there, okay?" She backed up to the door and grabbed the new shirt from the pile of clothes she'd dropped, coming back much more slowly this time.

Beth watched and waited. _Pull yourself together... she's just trying to help, idiot..._ She looked down at the floor and hugged herself, rasping, "Sorry."

Sally shook her head, doing her best to smile, or at the very least sound reassuring. "Hey, it's okay." As if _Beth_ had any need to apologise! She held out the shirt, still keeping her distance slightly. "Um, d'you want this?"

Beth looked up just enough to see the shirt and nodded mutely. She quickly shed her shirt and jacket and took the new one, buttoning it up hurriedly and whimpering as she did. _Zed_ , her hand _hurt_.

Sally turned away to give Beth some privacy, frowning at the noises her friend was making. She shook her head again as she turned back around, faintly amused to find herself tutting like Mrs. Hudson – but physical wounds _were_ easier to deal with, after all, and those long hours spent studying their ill-gotten library book had to be good for something. Very slowly, she held out her hand for Beth's injured one, expression silently asking permission.

Beth bit her lip. She couldn't, not even Sally, she couldn't let anyone touch her, never again, she couldn't, she couldn't... But she needed help, she knew that—she couldn't fix her dominant hand on her own. She nodded slowly, noting out of the corner of her eye that her reflection in the mirror looked as miserable as she felt.

Sally took her hand gently, hissing in sympathy on finding it already swelling along one side under the little finger. "Ooh, yeah, that's fractured, no mistake." She looked up again, trying to ignore her rising nausea – good thing she'd had plenty of practice lately. "Looks like you're on holiday for a while, honey."

Beth couldn't keep from flinching as Sally took her hand, whimpering softly. "Well, I guess I wasn't planning on going back into town soon," she mumbled. _Or ever again_.

Sally nodded, carefully refraining from asking the obvious question – if there ever would be a right moment, this was most definitely not it. "The medical bag's still in my room. Let's go get this splinted, okay?"

Beth nodded. "Okay." She followed Sally out into the master bedroom and settled on the huge four-poster bed, doing her best all the while not to start crying again over her hand. What she wouldn't have given for some 21st century painkillers right now.

Sally sat down gratefully beside Beth, trying to keep the bag balanced on her knee while she searched for what she needed. "Oh, yes – meant to tell you earlier..."

Beth was so intent on bracing herself—her hand truly _hurt_ , that was so _stupid_ —that she startled a bit when Sally spoke again. "What?"

"Kathy's kicking." Sally's grin was edged with sadness; she'd already had herself a good, long cry the first time, John not being there to share that precious moment hitting her hard.

Beth looked up and stared at Sally, the ghost of a smile creeping onto her face. She'd been waiting for this for months. "Oh my gosh," she murmured, "that's wonderful..."

Sally nodded, relieved beyond words to see her friend smiling again, even if only a little bit. "She just started." She laughed shakily, "It's just so _weird_ , you know? I mean, I've known for ages that she's in there, but this..." then trailed off suddenly, eyes glistening. Feeling her daughter's tiny movements was wondrous and overwhelming, but it was also scary as hell, a sharp wakeup call that giving birth and being a real mother was _actually going to happen_ , and that was only if nothing went wrong...

"I know," Beth said even more softly, "it's exciting..." She wished she could bring herself to hug Sally; she wanted to, but feared what she'd feel if she tried. Even Sally's gentle, familiar touch gave Beth shivers.

"Yeah..." Sally said quietly, then shook her head at herself as she suddenly noticed that the splint on Beth's hand was still only half done. "Sorry." She went back to work with a hesitant glance at the cut on Beth's neck – that was going to need tending, too, but since it clearly wasn't self-inflicted, Sally was much more concerned about how Beth might react.

Beth shook her head. "S'okay." As Sally continued, Beth recalled that she had a cut on the front of her neck and torn skin on the back—and she hadn't studied it very closely in the mirror. "Sally?" she said slowly, plaintively. "My-my neck... it's not infected, is it? The back, too, not just the front."

Sally leaned in closer for a moment, taking care to hold her breath while she inspected. "No, you're good, it just needs cleaning and a new dressing." Gently, "Would you rather do that?"

"Yeah," Beth said softly, "but could you stick around?" Sally's presence was helping to distract her mind from filling with memories. "Please?"

"Sure." Although lending a second pair of hands occasionally, as Beth was a bit hampered with the splint, Sally focused mainly on keeping a steady flow of small talk, which wasn't difficult: "...and you probably didn't see the scratches on the grand staircase? Jimmy and Gil thought it'd be fun to take the big serving platters out of the pantry and go sledding!" Those trays were solid silver and now horribly dented; Nikola had taken one look and shaken his head, then asked hopefully if he could have them to melt down for electrical components! Sally had sternly drawn the line at that – it was possible they would need the silver later on for bargaining – but she did let him have the copper jelly moulds.

Beth gave a very slight laugh, shaking her head. "Boys..."

Sally grinned. "Yeah, that's what George said – but he still made them scrub the kitchen floor!" And this being a manor house, it was a _big_ kitchen.

Beth grinned faintly back and shook her head again. She was sorry she'd missed it.

Just then, footsteps sounded further down the hall. "Oh, that might be Nikola." Sally blushed, giving Beth an apologetic look – calling him earlier had gone right out of her head. "Um, I thought maybe he could... I don't know, help somehow?" she finished weakly, then hastily added, "If you don't want to..." She was starting to wonder if this had been a bad idea, Beth being in the same room with _any_ other man right now, even if he didn't look anything like Moran.

Beth fidgeted awkwardly. "I don't... I don't know..." Would Nikola be able to help or would being around him make things worse? Maybe... she knew what the Doctor was capable of, psychically... could Nikola do the same? Or would seeing him... would that be too hard? "I don't know."

"Well, he did offer to help Kathy sleep when I do, so her kicking wouldn't keep me awake." Sally smiled wryly. "I just might take him up on that when she gets bigger. Maybe he could do that for you, too?" Any other suggestions could wait, at least until after Beth had gotten some rest.

Beth blinked. "M-maybe. I don't know..." All at once, she felt exhausted – it was a long ride out from London... and... She pulled up both feet on the bed and said in a small voice, "I don't... I don't _want_ to be with anyone else right now... Just you..."

Sally nodded. "All right. Just let me go talk to him, okay? I'll be right back."

Nikola was waiting halfway up the hall with a tray of food, and as Sally got closer, she was concerned to see that he was looking a little shaken himself. "Are you all right?"

Nikola gave her a pained smile. "I will be. The little one picked up your call and amplified it – we'll have to work on that later."

Sally's face fell. "Oh, Nikola! God, I'm sorry..." She already felt bad about shouting at him over something that hadn't been his fault.

Nikola shook his head in dismissal. "How is she?"

Sally bit her lip, thankful to be able to let her confident act slide for a moment – no fooling a telepath. "I... don't know... She doesn't want to see anyone else yet, but... if you could just hang around for a while, anyway?" If Beth did manage to sleep, Sally wasn't at all hopeful that it would be undisturbed.

Nikola nodded, handing over the tray. "Yes, of course."

"Thank you." Sally took the food with a grateful smile and hurried back to the bedroom.

Beth was lying down, curled up with all her limbs tucked in against her body, when Sally returned. The memories—the memory—was starting to trickle back to the forefront of her mind— _(voice, hands, mouth)_ —and she trembled, terrified that it was never going to stop, never going to leave her alone...

 _Oh, honey... what did he_ _do_ _to you?! Gran, I wish you were here... What would_ _ **you**_ _do right now?_ Sally put the tray down on the nearest chair, slowly coming forward and sitting on the edge of the bed beside Beth. Should she try to comfort her, or would that just make it worse?

Beth looked at Sally. _She helps... can't get through this alone, I'll go insane... I need her..._ She reached with her injured hand for Sally, and whispered, voice rough with unshed tears, "Please... please h-hold me..."

Sally's last lingering doubts vanished at the pleading look in Beth's eyes. Climbing up onto the bed, she lay down next to her friend and put an arm around her, cuddling her as best she could with Kathy in between – did all babies get this big this fast? "It's okay, honey," she murmured huskily, blinking back her own returning tears, "I've got you..."

Beth took Sally's other hand in her good one, her own tears starting to fall for the first time since _it_ had happened. "I'm not... I'm not okay... I c-can't... I..." She broke down sobbing, clinging to Sally like a lifeline.

At a loss for anything else to say, Sally just kept holding her close, letting her own tears gather and fall quietly. The only thing that kept her from calling Nikola was the gut feeling that there was nothing he could do for Beth right now that she wasn't already; for some things there was just no substitute.

"I wish he'd killed me!" Beth choked out between sobs. It would have been kinder—it would have been kinder to go out the way Mycroft had. "I wish he—he just would've done it! He _laughed_. He laughed, and he w-wanted m-me, and he w-wouldn't st- _stop_..."

Sally's face twisted in anguish at the sincerity in the girl's voice. "Oh, Beth!" Insides burning with fury, she started gently rubbing her friend's back with a hand that shook slightly, trying to calm herself at the same time.

"Why did he want me? He _k-kissed_ me." Beth gave a slightly hysterical laugh—it just didn't make _sense_. "Nobody's ever wanted to do that before—why..."

Sally couldn't think how to answer that. It wasn't Beth's fault that Moran had noticed how much she'd grown into a woman when Sherlock hadn't, but to say so would only hurt her friend even more.

"He's the first man to kiss me," Beth whispered. That hurt almost as much as everything else—that the first man outside her family to kiss her did it while trying to... trying to... "He didn't... didn't t-take... " She swallowed hard, unable to finish—Sally knew what she meant, anyway. "...but he did take that from me." She clenched her good hand into a fist and choked out, "I want to kill him! I want to..." She broke off into sobs again.

"I know, honey... I know..." Sally hoped fervently that Beth would have the chance someday; even if Moran hadn't been able to do his worst, he'd obviously meant to. "It's not fair..."

"I don't kn-know what to do..." She didn't know how she could keep from remembering, from going insane... from ending it all if it got to be too much...

Sally kept rubbing her back, murmuring, "You don't have to, baby... it's okay... it's okay..." then sucked in a startled breath as Kathy chose that moment to start kicking again.

Beth frowned past her tears. "What?"

Sally nodded downwards with a sheepish smile, although secretly very thankful for the distraction. "Kathy, she's awake."

Beth's eyes lit up in wonder. She'd seen her mother pregnant several times, but this part of it had never gotten old. "May I...?" she breathed.

"Course you can." Sally laid her hand on the approximate area, smile widening as she felt a tiny ripple under her palm – very different from how it felt on the inside! – then took it away again. "Just there."

Beth placed her hand where Sally's had been and felt a flutter of movement. "Oh my gosh," she murmured breathlessly. "Hi, sweetheart..."

Sally's breath caught – she could somehow _sense_ Kathy's attention going out to Beth, the spot where her friend was touching growing curiously warm... "Oh my god..." She gave Beth a wondering grin. "I think... she's saying 'hi' back." _Good girl..._

Beth's breath caught, eyes widening, tears springing to them for quite a different reason this time. "Hey, honey," she murmured hoarsely. "I can't wait to meet you properly... We'll do lots of fun stuff together, yeah?" She didn't know how the future would pan out once they got Time back on track, but she was determined to be a good aunt, since technically Kathy wouldn't have any.

"Absolutely." Sally murmured tenderly to Kathy, "Who's a clever girl? You know your aunty!" Maybe it was selfish of her, but Beth and the others had become her family; she couldn't bear the thought of losing anyone else, especially Beth.

Beth's eyes widened further, blushing slightly. It was one thing to think of herself as Kathy's aunt in her head, but another thing to hear Sally _say_ it. "I can't wait to see her... I wish we could do ultrasounds..." She'd loved seeing ultrasounds of her siblings ever since she was little.

"Mm..." Sally hummed wistfully. Well... maybe Nikola could manage something like that. Sound waves were his specialty, after all.

Beth's eyelids began to flutter, feeling as weary as she had when she first reunited with Sally and the Irregulars after Time froze. "I know it's hard," she murmured sleepily, "but I'm really glad you're having her..."

There was a lump in Sally's throat. "...me too..." She put her arm back around Beth, blinking as the tears threatened to gather again. "She's going to be a handful, I just know it..."

Beth smiled and nodded—if Kathy was anything like her parents... "Mm-hmm..."

Sally gave a faint huff of laughter as Kathy delivered another kick. "Drama queen," she murmured with a smile. "Settle down..." She started humming the soft Serbian lullaby that Nikola had taught her, although more for Beth's sake than the little one just now. _It's raining, grass is growing, forest is turning green..._

Sally's humming swiftly sent Beth to the edge of sleep, exhausted but comfortable and safe and loved. "...Sally? Thanks..."

"You're very welcome, honey," Sally whispered, and went on humming: _In the forest, a tree is growing, slender and tall..._ _Under the tree, my sister is sitting, I am beside her..._ and Beth's deep, even breathing told a relieved Sally that her friend was finally asleep.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and turned her thoughts outwards again, careful not to shout this time. _Nikola? Can you keep Beth from dreaming about... about what happened?_

 _Yes..._ Nikola sounded ominously hesitant. _But it can only be this once._

 _What?_ Just the _once_ , what good would that do?! _But..._

Nikola shook his head kindly but firmly. _Humans have to dream, Sally – if I kept interfering with her brainwaves, I could do irreparable damage without even realising it._

Sally's heart sank, the lump in her throat returning. _Then I guess... erasing that memory completely's not an option, either._ The tears she'd been holding onto were starting to spill over. _It's so_ _ **unfair**_ _..._ Beth had already been through hell and back – why should she have to live with something like _that_ , too?

 _Oh, Sally, draga..._ Nikola's presence surrounded her lightly, a mental hug. _Please try to understand... I haven't anywhere near the skill of the Doctor... and the heart remembers even when the mind forgets. Beth would always have the fear, but without knowing_ _ **why**_ _she was afraid – she would never be able to conquer it. Would you truly want that for her?_

Sally lifted her chin stubbornly. _Yes..._

 _Liar._ Nikola's weary, affectionate smile was painfully like the Doctor's.

Sally sniffed, wiping her actual face with her sleeve. _I hate it when you do that._

Nikola shrugged philosophically, as if to say Sally was entitled.

Sally sighed deeply, breaking the connection. "Telepaths," she muttered, sat up with difficulty to draw the nearest blanket over her and Beth, and snuggled back down. Just a couple of hours' peace without any more dire emergencies... she hoped that wasn't too much to ask...

* * *

 **Sky:** Our poor girls. *hugs them* This chapter was a last-minute addition, and heartbreaking to write.

Speaking of which, writing Beth in this chapter was a challenge. I've never been through what she's been through; I could only guess and hope I was doing it justice. I know she's been through a lot—just hang in there, her next appearance will be much happier! And Beth, for all intents and purposes, is both our hero and our protagonist in this finale, and we do believe in having happy endings, honest!

 **Ria:** I'm also deeply thankful to never have been in Beth's situation, but boy, have I been in Sally's! The wonder of impending motherhood has to work overtime just to come second place to all the anxiety, not to mention the discomfort. And after all that, the hardest part is yet to come...

And yes, that lullaby is the one child!Nikola sings for the Doctor in 'Icarus': Kiša Pada. Anyone who's curious can find lyrics and music at mamalisa dot com. I love the words, especially that last line, it's perfect for our girls.

Now, we realise that this is _the_ longest episode of the season so far! Fear not, the Part 2 climax is coming up fast, though not quite yet! Stay tuned for next chapter, in which Colonel Moran returns to Torchwood...


	12. Elegy

**==Chapter 12==**

 **Elegy**

 _Sometimes we love with nothing more than hope. Sometimes we cry with everything except tears._

– Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram

Moran stood stiffly to attention before Moriarty's desk, staring straight ahead and hoping like hell that his fear wasn't as visible in his expression as his failure clearly was – it was downright unnerving how the Professor could divine what a person was thinking from the smallest tell.

Moriarty's hands were folded beneath his chin as he gazed contemplatively up at his Colonel. The man was impassive, save for the slightest twitch in his features, but the Professor could sense the old soldier's fear. "Well then, Moran," he said evenly. "If you would be so kind, I would greatly appreciate an explanation as to how the British Empire's greatest tiger-hunter and _my_ Empire's most successful assassin… _failed_ to kill a girl not yet twenty. Please. Enlighten me."

Moran was painfully aware that Moriarty's placid exterior was only the calm before the storm. He had to sternly remind himself of what had become of other Torchwood members who'd attempted to make excuses after equally abysmal failures; one's sole chance for mercy in this situation was brutal honesty. "The truth is, Professor, that I allowed myself to become… distracted from my purpose. I delayed in striking the final blow, which gave Holmes's street Arabs the chance to intervene. The girl seems to have become their new general."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed. The foolishness of his chief of staff had put him in a difficult position: the most important tenet of running first his criminal organisation and then Torchwood had always been that the only person who was not expendable was Moriarty himself. Everyone knew that. The difficulty lay in the fact that Moriarty never had considered _Moran_ expendable; the sentiment had simply not troubled him before now.

 _"Distracted_ … _delayed_ … Interesting choices of words, Colonel. Dare I inquire as to what might have been so _distracting_ that you _delayed_ a kill?"

Moran braced himself for the inevitable reaction. "The girl herself, sir." _Scarlet beads sliding down that pale, slender neck, the iron tang of blood mingling headily with the sweet scent of growing terror..._

Anger flashed in Moriarty's eyes at the thoughts that Moran was thinking only too clearly. "I see," he said, still calm for the moment. "And now, because of your attempt to satisfy yourself with the body of a target, the target herself slipped right through your fingers." His voice rose suddenly, sharp with controlled fury. "Despite the fact that it was vitally important you end her life as soon as possible! _You allowed yourself to be bested by mere children!"_

Moran took care to wait until the Professor had ended his tirade before clearing his throat respectfully. "Not... entirely, sir." He reached into his coat and brought out the locket he'd taken from the girl's neck, the broken chain still stained with blood. _Her despairing scream as the chain sliced through skin and flesh... such exquisite music he had drawn from her, cut so maddeningly short..._

The man wasn't even _trying_ to act repentant, much less _think_ it, and that infuriated Moriarty further. Eyes turning icy, he stood and accepted the locket, head oscillating involuntarily. "I do not know," he said in a low tone, "how I could have clarified any further that the girl's very _existence_ threatens the existence of _all_ other life on this planet, including _yours_ , Moran."

The Colonel drew himself up straighter still. "No, sir, you've made that perfectly clear. But if I may, Professor… thanks to our last encounter, the girl now believes that Holmes is in urgent need of rescue. She and her army of street rats will no doubt make an attempt sooner or later –" the vicious gleam in his eye grew brighter; "and they'll receive a warm welcome when they do."

Moriarty arched an eyebrow—did the man seriously believe he would escape the consequences of his blunder? "They shall, indeed, but _you_ will not be part of it. Elizabeth Lestrade is no longer your concern, Colonel Moran."

Moran's jaw clenched. First Holmes in Tibet, and now the girl... He would rather have taken a hundred lashes than be forced to give up his quarry a second time, and Moriarty knew it, damn him. "Sir, I admit that I let my... appetites best me the last time – but it will not happen again. I respectfully request…"

"You will respectfully request _nothing_ , Moran," Moriarty cut in sharply, satisfied to see the punishment hit home—"your 'appetites' may yet cost me very dearly. You will leave this room now and I will not hear another word from you regarding Miss Lestrade, is _that_ clear?"

Seething inwardly, Moran forced himself to answer, albeit through gritted teeth, "Yes, sir," before stalking out without even a parting salute. He already had a good idea of who'd be given the assignment next. Jones knew less about human decency than a sewer rat, which would let him move through the underworld of Old London with an ease that Moran could only envy. Unfortunately, Jones wouldn't be able to track the girl the way Moran had on that ingenious alien device, as the phone she'd been carrying seemed to have vanished without trace – Moran allowed himself a very faint smirk as he strode along the corridor – or someone could simply have turned it off...

* * *

Holmes sat at dinner with his elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands, the plate before him untouched. The food wasn't the problem, which was plain yet adequate (no half rations for Torchwood employees!), or even the company, although Holmes would gladly cease attending this daily charade if he didn't know that such petty defiance would only be a waste of everyone's time, including his own. If Moriarty wished his protégé to join him for dinner every 'evening', the unfortunate protégé might as well show up and get it over with so that he could return to work all the sooner. Given the progress Holmes and the other scientists were making, food might be grown again in a matter of weeks... provided that the quantum variance sensors could be recalibrated, they _still_ weren't sensitive enough...

Seated to Holmes's left at the head of the table, Moriarty paused in peeling an orange, his expression one of benevolent interest. "Well, how are the Time enclosures progressing?"

"Mm..." The detective nodded absently, still deep in thought. Perhaps they should try decreasing the level of gamma radiation in small increments, it was possible that the Rift matter could be controlled with a much weaker infusion...

"Dear me. In that case, I have good news: our dear Colonel has at last dispatched of his young prey."

Scarcely paying attention, Holmes was about to nod again without bothering to conceal his irration – how Moriarty expected solutions if he wouldn't let people concentrate... Then a frozen hand suddenly seemed to clutch at his insides as the Professor's words finally penetrated; for one dazed moment, he wondered if he'd even heard correctly. Beth... Elizabeth... was dead? No... no, that wasn't... she... she _couldn't_...

He was painfully aware of Moriarty's intense scrutiny as the Professor continued. "He submitted this –" the frozen hand tightened its grip as Moriarty produced a tarnished, heart-shaped locket, the delicate chain broken and stained red... _no..._ "as his trophy."

Now white to the lips, Holmes forced himself to breathe. He _must_ remember: circumstantial evidence was not _proof_ , there were any number of ways Moran could have obtained that locket! The fact that Holmes didn't care to speculate on any of them was irrelevant... and Moriarty was still awaiting some kind of response. "Well..." he managed to reply in a relatively even tone, keeping his hands clasped together to prevent them from shaking, "it would seem the dear Colonel is to be congratulated on a successful conclusion to his hunt. It would have been so humiliating for the poor man to have to admit defeat."

"Indeed… it would also seem that the Colonel made his target pay for any humiliation he'd already suffered." The Professor resumed peeling his neglected orange. "He says that he should have sent a more conclusive trophy, but it would have been difficult – not enough left of the body when he was finished... why, my dear Holmes –" Moriarty interrupted himself with a look of apparent concern, "you seem rather unwell. Is anything the matter?"

Swearing inwardly for having allowed himself to flinch at such obvious provocation, Holmes gave Moriarty a look of icy scorn. "I merely object to being regaled with grisly details during a repast. Such subjects are surely best kept until after dinner."

Both Moriarty's eyebrows were lifting at that – Holmes wasn't certain why, and frankly, he didn't care. "My apologies."

Not trusting himself to answer, Holmes nodded shortly and turned his attention to the food in front of him. His appetite might be completely ruined, but then so was his concentration – he desperately needed _something_ to focus on until he could finally leave the table.

* * *

Watson had learned many tricks to help pass the time while on stakeouts with Holmes, and being a prisoner here had seen him using every one of them in a desperate attempt to keep from going mad with boredom. Finding a way of accurately marking the passage of time, one which his guards wouldn't immediately find and destroy in their periodic searches, had occupied his thoughts for a good while. Eventually, he settled on his own resting heartbeat as an hourglass, which he'd used to work out roughly how long it was between each meal. Marking every third delivery, Watson estimated that he'd been a captive the equivalent of five months – not that it signified in here, and dwelling on the matter only served to lower his spirits further.

Exercise was his preferred activity at the moment, not least because it allowed his mind to go mostly blank, a much-needed reprieve from all the stress. He'd tried meditation several times for that purpose and given up in despair after every attempt – there were simply too many voices that would not be silenced, too many regrets...

Watson's ears pricked at the muffled sound of approaching footsteps: damn, much too soon for his next meal, it had to be either a search or Moriarty. He rose from the bed with a heavy sigh and was standing easy in the center of the room when Moriarty entered, flanked by several guards, two of whom immediately came forward to take hold of the doctor's arms.

"Doctor Watson."

Watson chose not to echo the man's nod of greeting, careful to stay as relaxed as he could under the circumstances. "Moriarty."

Moriarty favoured him with a revoltingly genial smile. "Forgive the precaution, my dear sir – I have some news which may be of interest to you."

"I am all ears, my dear sir," Watson sneered back. "What new lesson has your prize pupil learnt this time?" Every visit of this kind was equally fraught with hope and dread: hope that Holmes might have failed to live up to his mentor's expectations, just once... and dread that he or his former friend might be made to suffer for that failure.

Moriarty's smile turned cold. "The lesson of letting go, Doctor. Colonel Moran has apprised me of his success in tracking down and dispatching his young prey."

Watson felt the blood in his veins turn to ice.

"Unfortunately, there was not enough left of the body to send it back."

"No..." Watson whispered, now white as a sheet. "No, I don't believe you!"

Wordlessly, Moriarty held up Beth's locket, and Watson felt like he'd punched in the gut to see the broken, blood-stained chain. "...no..." Please, God, _no_ , not Beth! And, dear heaven, _Sally_... whatever had become of her?!

Moriarty's next offhanded words only made him feel sicker: "Holmes had nothing but congratulations for our dear Colonel."

Watson's eyes burned with fury, growling through clenched teeth, "And if you believed him sincere, then you, sir, are as brainless as your murdering henchman!" If only he could feel as certain as he sounded...

Moriarty's eyes glinted. "I did not say that I believed him, Doctor. You may be certain that there will be a price to pay for every lie he tells me." He smiled slowly at Watson's horrified expression, realising his mistake far too late. "I told you that you would be useful, my dear Doctor." The Professor studied his fingernails. "Holmes still has a bit too much of a heart for his own good... but you see, Watson, even if I do fail to entirely deconstruct the Great Detective, I can just easily spend eternity making his existence a living hell."

Watson glared murderously. "Gloat all you want, you sadistic bastard, it won't make any difference in the end."

Moriarty looked up, arching an indifferent eyebrow. "It made all the difference to young Elizabeth, did it not?"

" _Be silent!_ " Watson snarled, teeth bared. "You aren't worthy even to speak her name!" That blessed girl, so compassionate and brave... Moriarty had taken nothing from her that she hadn't willingly given!

Moriarty's eyes blazed, giving a single sharp nod to his men. Watson fought as best he could, but was quickly overpowered... and couldn't quite choke back a scream at the sharp _crack_ and flood of white-hot pain in his right forearm.

Struggling to draw breath, he dimly heard Moriarty hiss above him through the ringing in his ears, "It would seem you still have not learnt your own lessons, Doctor."

"Go...to... hell..." Watson choked, limp and shaking in his captors' hold, vision swiftly clouding over.

Just before blacking out, he thought he heard the Professor murmuring in his ear, "Yet another lesson you seem to have forgotten, Watson… we are already there. Thank you so much."

* * *

Over the last few weeks, Holmes's method for getting adequate sleep had been to work himself to exhaustion, couches being thoughtfully provided in the labs for that very contingency, then divert briefly to his unused suite on waking to refresh himself and change clothes. However much he might dislike the circumstances, finishing the Time enclosures _was_ essential to the survival of the remaining population, giving Holmes a purpose and drive he had hitherto lacked – Moriarty's intention, no doubt.

The Professor's announcement, however, had made returning to work impossible, Holmes was still too overwrought, what he wouldn't give for a cigarette right now... yes, a cigarette, that was what he needed... a good, long smoke would help steady his nerves, he just needed to get back to his rooms... ah, the hell with it.

Since lung cancer was no longer a concern in Frozen Time, smoking was not only permitted at Torchwood, it was encouraged, although forbidden in the corridors. Still, being reprimanded over a minor breach of regulations would only serve as a welcome distraction right now. Holmes fumbled in his pocket for his cigarette case, eventually managing to extract one, then went through half a dozen matches before he finally succeeded in lighting the damn thing, taking a long drag and sagging wearily against the wall.

It was all he had time for before being interrupted by the very last person he wanted to see coming around the nearest corner.

Moran raised an eyebrow at the sight of the smoking detective, then chuckled. "Forget the rules, Holmes? Oh, don't worry, I won't tell a soul." He took a cigar out of his own pocket and lit it with a conspiratorial grin that turned Holmes's stomach.

He straightened, giving the Colonel a chilly stare, although without as much venom behind it as he'd intended. At least his hands weren't shaking so obviously now, the smoke was starting to do its work.

"Haven't seen you since you first came in, come to think of it," Moran went on in a conversational tone. "How's tutoring with the old man coming along? He's not going off on tangents and putting you to sleep, I hope, he has a habit of doing that sometimes."

Holmes's lip curled slightly. "Is that why it took you so long to track me down, falling asleep in class?"

Moran's answering smile had a decidedly baleful edge to it. "No, I hear you have your Time Lord to thank for that. After Tibet, I came home—knew you couldn't stay away forever."

Holmes shrugged, doing his best to ignore the sinking feeling triggered by Moran's mention of the Doctor. It had occurred to him since his capture that it could well have been the Doctor's reassurance that he and Watson _would_ reunite which had caused him to let his guard down too soon. He should have known that the murder charge against Moran wouldn't hold up without his testimony, there'd been too little solid evidence! "And the hapless Adair was the bait... Moriarty's notion, I gather?" he asked, innocent tone belying the unspoken implication: small wonder the Professor's trusted lieutenant was still only the brawn of the outfit.

Moran's eyes narrowed. "His choice of victim, certainly. You really have a lot to thank him for—my own plans, carried out, would not have been half as pleasant."

Holmes couldn't quite suppress a shiver; up until now, he'd managed not to think about what Moran might actually have done to obtain Beth's locket. "My condolences."

Moran shrugged lightly, clearly enjoying the detective's reaction. "Oh, I don't mind too much. It's been fun to watch, even from a distance. And I managed to find other... outlets... for any frustration you caused me."

Holmes's lips tightened. "I don't doubt it," he replied coldly.

"The girl, for instance. What was her name... Beth?" Moran smiled as if in fond remembrance. "Such a pretty little thing... and such a lovely scream..."

Once more, Holmes had to forcibly remind himself to breathe. Could it be true? The gleam in the Colonel's eye was only too believable... and if it _was_ true... Then he realised that Moran was looking faintly amused, and saw with chagrin that he had been unconsciously crushing the remains of his cigarette between his fingers.

Moran studied his cigar, going on casually, "She would have given you everything she had, did you know that? Now, I understand, the Professor's a persuasive man, but... you threw it all away. Even her."

Holmes could hardly disagree, but he'd be damned if he would give Moran any more satisfaction than he could help! "Is there a point to this diatribe, Colonel," he said acidly, "or do you just enjoy the sound of your own voice?"

Moran arched an eyebrow. "The old man hasn't damaged you so much that you can't mourn her. You should see yourself: you're paler than a ghost right now."

Holmes stared, anger swiftly being replaced by confusion and growing suspicion. Was this... a test? And if it was... The detective's eyes narrowed as he suddenly worked it out. "I see... Dr. Watson." If he mourned for Beth, Watson would go free... and Moran would have the pleasure of seeing Holmes fail his mentor. If he did not... nothing would change... except that he'd have proved himself worthy of being Moriarty's heir.

"Well, I don't think the Professor's going to get much more use out of the good doctor, and I must say I wouldn't be sorry to see him in a better situation myself. Besides, the girl cried for you when she was... misinformed... as to your well-being." Moran gave another shrug. "It'd only be decent to return the favour."

Holmes nearly choked at that, shooting Moran a look of icy contempt – how did an _assassin_ have the audacity to lecture _Holmes_ on the subject of decency?

Both Moran's eyebrows were lifting. "You won't do it, will you?" He stubbed out his cigar and turned to walk away, shaking his head. "For shame, Holmes, for shame."

The detective sighed, suddenly feeling very weary. "If you're expecting me to argue, Colonel, you'll be waiting a long time." Moran didn't seem to realise... even if Holmes believed the man's claims, even if he'd been prepared to conquer his pride... he no longer had any tears left to shed. He'd learnt from his mentor only too well.

Moran snorted, starting to walk off. "God, you're worthless like this if that's the best comeback you can manage—less the Professor's heir and more his spoiled brat."

Holmes resisted the urge to snort – did Moran honestly think Holmes was here for _his_ amusement? "Be sure to mention that in your report," he drawled sardonically.

"Oh, I shall. I'd have _so_ much more fun if the old man would finally agree with me. _Au revoir,_ _cher garçon_."

Holmes didn't bother to respond, but as Moran strolled back around the corner, he couldn't escape the whispering thought: _If only_... Looking back on how he'd spent the last two months, the mere thought of going back to work suddenly made Holmes feel ill. He couldn't even remember why being a part of the enclosure project had seemed so damned important at the time. Was there really a point to any of this? Had there ever been? Beth was most likely dead... the Doctor trapped in the Rift... and even if Watson were released, he wouldn't come back for Holmes now. The detective hadn't even heard a single whisper about Mycroft since his capture... and his older brother would never knowingly abandon him, the man would move heaven and earth to find him if he thought there was a chance... which meant that Mycroft probably believed him dead already, and Watson, too.

He was alone... trapped in this stagnant, stinking pool of Frozen Time, no hope of escape... for if Moriarty had been correct, Beth's existence was all that could have ended this Reality... or _was it_? Holmes inhaled sharply at the sudden, blinding thought. Moriarty would hardly have been inclined to tell Holmes that... that _his_ _or Watson's_ death... Was it possible? Well, surely, if he and Watson had been the catalyst at the beginning... And even if it didn't work... taking himself out of the picture now could make no real difference to anyone, except for Moriarty... and wouldn't _that_ be all to the good?

Holmes looked down with a sigh at the ruined cigarette stub he was still holding, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it, then walked slowly back to his room, deep in thought. He still had a great deal to ponder, especially the timing... not that he'd made any final decisions, of course, but it didn't hurt to consider all his options... and whatever he eventually decided, at least he couldn't be any worse off than he was already.

* * *

 **Ria:** *hugs our boys* The last scene was yet another last-minute addition – sort of. While writing out this latest draft of the finale, we noticed that almost all of our original interactions between Holmes and Moran had been cut – and no, you really don't want to know what those scenes were like! *shiver*

In any case, we decided that the season climax would be incomplete without having at least one proper _tête-à-tête_ between the Professor's student and second-in-command. The spirit of their original scenes is still there, at least, particularly the pair's mutual loathing – which is going to make for some nail-biting action in later episodes!

Stay tuned for next chapter, and a certain long-awaited arrival... ;)


	13. Labour of Love

**Author's Note:** This chapter contains the long-awaited birth scene. *hugs Sally* Those squeamish about that kind of thing, read the first scene, then skip to the last one – you won't miss anything important.

 **==Chapter 13==**

 **Labour of Love**

" _That first pregnancy is a long sea journey to a country where you don't know the language, where land is in sight for such a long time that after a while it's just the horizon – and then one day birds wheel over that dark shape and it's suddenly close, and all you can do is hope like hell that you've had the right shots."_  
― Emily Perkins, Novel About My Wife

For the past few 'months', Beth had not quite gone out of her way to avoid Nikola, but it was difficult sometimes to talk with him. After the incident with Moran, she'd ended up begging the telepath to erase or lock away her memories—she'd been having nightmares almost constantly, and her waking moments had been oversaturated with agonisingly clear memories. He'd regretfully but firmly refused, explaining that he could not attempt it without potentially damaging her brain.

" _It's already_ _ **damaged**_ _, Nikola—I swear I'm literally going crazy! I'd rather be damaged… further… please!"_

" _Oh, draga, I can't."_

" _Then what_ _ **good**_ _are you?!"_

Oh, she'd felt shame for that. She'd apologised, later, but she'd felt guilty on top of feeling one step away from pure madness. Eventually, being on the move again, particularly in other non-London cities, helped her recover, at least to the point where she was _sleeping_ again, but having conversations with Nikola had been awkward ever since.

And now he wanted to talk with her out in his lab, otherwise known as the old stables for the estate. Shivering at the damp cold, she pulled her scarf tight around her, pushed open the unbolted door, and knocked on it. "He-llo." **  
**

Nikola looked up from where he was working at a makeshift table, jeweller's glass in his right eye. "Beth—please come in. Have a…" He looked around the crowded space for somewhere to sit, in vain. "Oh. Er…"

She couldn't help grinning, shaking her head as she entered, and shut the door behind her. "It's okay." She looked around her—no matter how many times she saw this place, it never failed to awe her. "This place really is _amazing_ …"

He shrugged modestly and straightened slowly, massaging his lower back. "We couldn't have built half of this without Nat. His father was a blacksmith; he's been a great help with the forge." Since their resident inventors couldn't scrounge most of the parts and tools they'd needed, they would often make them from scratch.

Beth hummed thoughtfully, then turned to him, shoving her hands into her pockets and hoping she didn't look or feel as nervous as she felt. "So… what's up?"

He hesitated, never a good sign. "A topic of some delicacy…" He smiled ruefully. "...which, as George can tell you, isn't normally my area of expertise! Ah… you and Sally are aware, are you not, that your being from the future makes you… stand out, so to speak?"

She smiled back, hoping to put him at ease. She dearly wished she'd never lost her temper at him, he hadn't deserved that at all. He and George had taken so much of the weight of responsibility off of her and Sally's shoulders—she didn't know how they would have managed without the pair. "Um… Sally and I stand out in a lot of ways… One in particular, though, I take it?"

"Yes… because now that Time is paused, you two are essentially paradoxes, temporal impossibilities. And Moriarty being Time sensitive…"

She shivered, remembering a grip of iron around her chin and an odd sensation like drowning, but calmly, caught up in those cold grey eyes… "That's what he said, before," she said grimly. "Said he'd sensed my being a paradox."

Nikola nodded. "Fortunately, there are now many more people in Frozen Time who should not be, which makes my task slightly easier."

Beth frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Before Time froze, I could get a sense of future events, although nowhere near as clearly as Moriarty. Now that Time is paused, that particular gift has essentially gone dormant—" he smiled faintly—"and I'd wager a large sum that Moriarty is experiencing much the same handicap." He shook his head. "However, the point is that clairvoyance was only one of my skills."

She nodded slowly. "You're telepathic, too."

"To a limited extent—if I want to talk to someone, I either need to have had contact with them before, or be in direct line of sight. And their minds need to be open, I can't make anyone hear me if they don't want to. But I can also use it to… I suppose 'camouflage' is one way of describing it."

Beth's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she made the connection. "…you've been doing that for Sally and me."

"Yes – it's a bit like the TARDIS's perception filter, only more…" He waved his hands as he searched for the right words. "...taking the _wrongness_ of your being a paradox and… blending it, blurring it, into the _rest_ of the wrongness around you. Without all these extra people and events, it wouldn't be nearly as effective." He frowned. "Even so…"

She sighed. "There's always a 'but.' What is it?"

He looked at her awkwardly. "Please understand, Beth, I will continue to do all I can to protect you… but using my abilities is like a juggling act—I only have two mental 'hands'…" His tone softened: "And two paradoxes are soon to become three…" **  
**

She smiled ruefully even as somewhere in her chest began to hurt. "And mommy and baby take priority." She brushed her hair away from her face. "It's okay; I understand." Her gaze turned distant. "Not much longer anyway until we're ready to end this whole thing."

His eyes widened. "Ah… Er, Beth? I think something else has just started…"

Her eyes went round—given what they'd been talking about… "Oh my gosh. The baby?"

"Yes…" His own gaze turned distant, eyebrows rising. "And somehow I don't think this is going to take very long." He headed out the door and up to the house.

Beth paled. "Hooo boy." She ran after him and passed him, entering the house in search of Sally.

"Kitchen!" he called after her. "George is with her."

* * *

( _Scene rating: V_ )

Beth burst into the kitchen and froze, making a strangled noise of shock. Sally was kneeling on a folded tablecloth, liberally stained red, her skirt kilted up. She was clutching the leg of the kitchen table and breathing deeply, head bowed, face scrunched up in pain.

George looked up in relief as Beth arrived. Thank goodness—he was hoping she hadn't gone far; not that she'd really gone much of anywhere in the last month, so that she would be home when the baby was born. Sally certainly needed another woman to help her through this. "She only just started, but I think this baby is in a hurry!"

Sally almost sobbed in relief as the giant fist that had started squeezing her abdomen without warning suddenly loosened its grip, drawing in slower, trembling breaths, hands still locked on the table leg – no one had said anything about the _first_ pains being this bad! She turned her head and said unsteadily to George, "Okay, now!"

George nodded and began to count silently. In the absence of any working clocks, he had been given the all-important job of stopwatch; that medical book had been very clear about contraction times, and George was determined not to lose track, whatever else happened.

Pale and shaky, Beth held out her arms to Sally. "We should get you upstairs now."

Sally shook her head, trying to smile and failing; Beth looked almost as shellshocked as she felt, which wasn't helping. "In a minute... I hope!" She shot a pleading look at Nikola, who nodded and knelt in front of her, his reassuring smile a very welcome sight – at least he'd know if Kathy was okay in there!

Nikola gently placed his hands on either side of her swollen belly, closing his eyes. Thank God... the little one was as whole and healthy as when he'd last seen her, except that this time she was upside down. "It's all right, Sally, she's turned." The telepath's smile widened at the sense of urgency radiating off the infant. "Oh, she's impatient, this one." He reached out to Kathy, his 'voice' as soothing as he could make it. _Not yet, draga. It's too early, Mama's not ready._

Kathy's answer was dreamy but clear: _...want Mama..._

 _Mama wants you, too, little one. You'll see her very soon, I promise._ Nikola opened his eyes. "She…"

"I know..." Sally interrupted him breathlessly, "I heard her..." _Mama..._ She looked up at Beth, eyes glistening. "Beth... she really knows me!"

Beth had been watching in wonder, and smiled back now at Sally past sudden tears. This was really happening... and Sally and Kathy were both going to be okay. They were okay right now and they were going to stay that way.

"Oh God..." Sally tightened her grip on the table leg, knuckles white as the giant fist began squeezing again, puffing and panting like a bellows. _...pleaseGod_ _ **please**_ _I'lldoanythingjust_ _ **makeitstop**_ _…_

Beth grimaced as the next contraction started, shuddering. They couldn't even give Sally anything for the pain—they didn't _have_ anything.

George raised his eyebrows—that was a short space between contractions. "The little one really does want to be born in a hurry." He gently gripped Sally's shoulders and rubbed them soothingly. "It's all right, Sally," he murmured, "you're doing just fine..." He waited until the next time the poor girl released her grip. "All right, that one was about a minute long. Time to move." Carefully, carefully, he gathered her up in his arms, tablecloth and all.

Nikola turned to the wide-eyed boys crowding the doorways, voice stern to conceal his own worry and discomfort. "And what are all of you doing standing around here? Will, Kelly, put water on to boil, and plenty of it; Paul and Charlie, come with us, you're the runners. And I'm certain the rest of you have chores to be doing." The more people kept occupied right now the better, and the telepath wanted as few mental distractions as possible during the birth. Poor Sally had no idea that she was broadcasting the pain of each contraction, which he was barely managing to block out. He wished he might help dampen that for her, too, but he didn't dare – Sally was the mother-to-be, and contrary to what she might believe, his instincts regarding Kathy's wellbeing could never surpass hers.

Sally winced as George slowly stood up with her – Kathy wasn't taking kindly to being moved. _Easy, honey..._ She gave the anxiously watching Irregulars a fond, if strained, smile. "Put your heads together while you're waiting, boys, she still needs a middle name."

There was a chorus of 'yes, sirs' and 'yes, ma'ams', a few of the boys saluting as they set to work.

George bore Sally out of the kitchen and up the back stairs as smoothly as he could. It wasn't easy: he was no longer in his prime, and the young mother was not light. They only just reached the guestroom set up for the birth when the next contraction started.

Sally moaned in pain before remembering to breathe, grabbing at George's shoulder and clutching it for dear life as she sucked in great lungfuls of air. If she somehow lived through this, she'd never be able to eat fish again... oh no... oh God, no, not _now_! "...G-George..." but Nikola was already there with a basin, holding Sally's forehead as her treacherous stomach threw in the towel.

When the cloud of agony and nausea finally lifted, she found herself curled up on the bed, George kneeling beside it with his arms still around her. Oh, _terrific_ – had she just passed out? Her whole body ached, there was a foul taste in her mouth... and she somehow still had George's shoulder in a death grip. She let go hastily, face turning red. "I'm sorry..." she croaked. Not fair, her throat was raw and she hadn't even _started_ screaming...

George shook his head, smiling weakly. The poor, brave girl... with a grip of iron. "Shh, it's all right."

Beth hung back in the doorway, trembling, scared, unable to hold back her tears. "I-is there a-anything I c-can do?" she managed in a small voice.

Sally wordlessly reached out to her friend around George, eyes pleading. _Don't leave me, Beth, I'm scared, so scared, I can't do this, I_ _ **can't**_ _..._

Nikola winced at the sheer terror of Sally's unguarded thoughts, but took care to occupy himself with pouring a glass of water while gently 'nudging' Beth forward into the room. _Just be with her, Beth; the most important thing right now is to help her stay calm._

Beth nodded mutely, almost sobbing aloud at the look in Sally's eyes—it was all so intense and her best friend was so scared and in so much pain and she had no idea how to handle it. She padded over to the bed and sat down, taking Sally's hand and squeezing gently, wiping away her tears with her free hand.

Sally squeezed back tightly, a whimper slipping out as her own tears started spilling over.

Making a quick decision, Nikola handed the water glass to Beth. _Small sips between every contraction_ , _she needs to keep hydrated._ Sally unconsciously trusted Beth the most out of the three, and with any luck, Beth having something useful to do would help both women feel more confident.

 _Thanks_. Beth took the glass and murmured soothingly to Sally, "I know, I know…" She forced a brave smile. "Hey… you'll be okay. All right? You'll be okay. You can do this."

Sally managed a faint, trembling smile back, not the least bit convinced, but grateful for the vote of confidence. " _God_ , this hurts!" she moaned, lifting her head off the pillow with great reluctance. She desperately needed that water Beth was holding, though; her mouth was all dried out from the deep breathing, and she still hadn't rinsed after being sick. "If John wants any more, I'll kill him!" _Never again..._

Beth held up the glass to Sally's lips, managing a wry edge to her sympathetic expression. "…I am not even going to comment on that."

George chuckled ruefully, supporting Sally's head as she sipped; he could well remember the dire threats that Marguerite had hurled at him while she was giving birth to Junior. "Just keep breathing, sweetheart. You're doing well."

Nikola hummed encouragingly in agreement, walking to the door and poking his head out into the hall. "Paul, can you fetch a basin of hot water? It needn't be boiled – steady, now, there's no rush," he added admonishingly, his words falling on deaf ears as the Irregular jumped up and raced back to the stairs.

Beth set aside the glass for the moment and leaned forward, raising Sally's hand and clasping it in both of hers. "Upwards and onwards," she whispered.

Sally nodded grimly, then clenched her teeth as the pain returned abruptly, groaning and curling in on herself, her grip on Beth's hands tightening, other hand clawing at the sheets until George took it in his. _...breathe... just_ _ **breathe**_ _... can't kill John if I die...!_

Finally she uncurled again, exhausted and shaking, mentally cursing every man ever born and John Watson most of all... but when she unscrunched her eyelids, George holding a damp cloth was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

While George bathed Sally's face and hands, Nikola steeled himself to ask Beth, face turning red despite his best efforts: _Will Sally let you examine her? We, er, do need to know how far along she is._

Beth winced—this was the part she'd known she'd have to do and been dreading. _I'll try._ "Sally?" she said aloud. "Um…" She blushed: _awkward, awkward, awkward_... "I should probably… y'know… check… to see how you're doing…" She was blushing furiously by the time she was done.

Sally gave her a shaky smile, blushing herself. "I know… s'okay." No sense getting prudish now, although having someone she knew doing this was still more embarassing than a trained professional would've been. With help, she managed to roll gingerly onto her back, George and Nikola politely looking away while Beth examined her.

Beth's eyes widened even as her face remained red. Logically, she knew that the baby had to come out of a big enough... opening... but the knowing had not prepared her for the reality. "Uh, guys? She's, um... I would say she's dilated... three inches? That's really close already, isn't it?"

Nikola's brows shot up. "Extremely. George, how long was that last contraction?"

"I lost count, but about ninety seconds." George smiled kindly at Sally, patting her hand and bracing himself for another round of having his fingers crushed. "Looks like you're nearly into the home stretch, sweetheart – probably another couple of hours at most."

Sally groaned. "Oh, brilliant – just time for a cuppa!" She knew she was lucky to have things go as quickly as this the first time, but couldn't it have started off a little easier?!

Beth gave her a shaky grin, picking up the water glass again. "Let's get this into you first, okay?" Still, a strong cup of tea when this was all over sounded _wonderful_.

* * *

Sally lost all sense of time soon after that. There were brief moments of clarity, Beth cruelly making her roll over onto her other side after every contraction before letting her drink, but mostly her world was _pain_ , cramping, tearing pain, eased only a tiny bit by her gasping breaths... and then, on top of all that, her lunatic body suddenly decided to start turning itself inside out!

Out in the hallway, the two Irregulars looked at each other in awe at the sudden outpouring of banshee yells and curses from the normally soft-spoken 'Doctor's missus', and at least a few were very familiar.

"Don' look at me, Oi didn't teach 'er that!" Charlie murmured, wide-eyed, as Sally told the world at large that her husband's parents had never been married, although not in so many words.

"Must've got it from Nat," Paul grinned. Like Beth, he was the second eldest of a large family – if asked, he would have been in there like a shot, but there just wasn't room.

" _I_ _ **AM**_ _PUSHING! I'M THREADING A BLOODY_ _ **NEEDLE**_ _WITH A BLOODY_ _ **BOWLING BALL**_ _,_ _ **YOU**_ _TRY IT!_ "

Paul saw Charlie wince, elbowing him sympathetically in the ribs. "Oi, cheer up, won' be long now – that babby _wants_ out, sure as eggs."

"Yeah..." Charlie scowled fiercely down at the toes of his boots. "Mebbe Nikola should've told 'er not ter rush, we still ain't foun' 'er dad yet."

"Well, we got to," Paul said flatly, resisting the temptation to kick Charlie in the ankle – it might help them both feel better, but this really wasn't the time or place for a scrap. "Or we're all in real Barney."

"Eh?"

Paul smirked. "Got that from Missus Watson: Barney Rubble, trouble."

"Oo's 'e, then?" Charlie asked, raising his voice slightly as Sally's next string of swear words came through the door.

"Dunno."

* * *

Nikola had returned his hands to Sally's abdomen as she entered the final stage, staying in close contact with Kathy – the little one took some convincing that the best way to 'help Mama' was to remain still! George had sat himself directly behind Sally, propping her up, her hands locked on his as she struggled to work in tandem with her body.

Sally had quickly discovered that pain wasn't the only hurdle: the sheer horror at her body splitting open like this (what &%#$ _idiot_ had _designed_ the female sex?!) was nearly paralysing. The only thing that kept her going was the not-at-all-comforting knowledge that she was the only one who could make it _stop_ – even if that meant she had to push out what she knew was a baby, but _felt_ like a cinder block!

Beth sat beside Sally and George and did her best not to freak out, wishing she were anywhere else but here. Her colour alternated between white and red—she hadn't known Sally had it in her to swear like that. Then again, under the gulp-inducing circumstances...

Nikola 'nudged' Beth, sweat beading his own brow as he split his focus roughly in half. _Beth... I'm sorry to ask this of you, but George and I both have our hands full here..._

Beth paled again. _You want me to handle her as she comes out?_

 _You'll be fine, Beth –_ Nikola gave her a reassuring grin; _you've got the easiest job of all! Just make sure the cord isn't around Kathy's neck when her head appears._ He already knew it wasn't, but Beth would cope better with something to look out for.

Beth's eyes widened, but nodded, swallowing hard as she moved into position. _H'okay. Zed, how close_ _ **are**_ _we?_

 _Very. Let us know when you see the top of her head._ Nikola turned his focus to Sally. _You're_ _ **so**_ _close, draga, just a little further. Next one's coming, can you feel it?_

 _ **What do you think?!**_ Sally panted for breath as the cramps returned, bracing herself and tightening her grip on George's hands. Another shrieking groan burst from her throat as she bore down, oh God, this was _killing_ her, _please, God,_ _ **please**_ _, don't let me die!_

George barely stifled a grunt at the vice-like grip, but murmured encouragingly in her ear, "That's it, Sally... good girl... nearly there..." _Nikola, can't you do_ _ **something**_ _to ease the pain? She'll still know when to push!_

Nikola hesitated, then decided that George was right – besides, it would only take a few more contractions at most. Very carefully, he attempted to dull the nerve endings around the opening, and was relieved to see Sally relaxing perceptibly. _All right?_

Sally's look of pure gratitude was tinged with exasperation. _You couldn't have done that earlier?!_ Then she shook her head, abashed. _Sorry._ She drew a deep breath. _Okay... let's get this over with._ The next cramps were just as horrible as the last, but at least now she didn't feel like she was being torn in half – she could do this.

Beth gasped. "Oh my gosh... Sally, I can see her! The top of her head! I can see her!"

Sally's heart jumped into her mouth. _Kathy_... Her baby was so nearly here, so _close_ , just a little longer and she could _hold_ her... and now she was silently cursing this contraction for ending and waiting impatiently for the next! She couldn't even push for that one, the book had said to let the baby's head crown on its own; she leaned back against George with a shuddering sigh and tried to focus on her breathing. _It's all right, honey, j_ _ust a little bit longer, can't wait to see you..._

That next contraction brought Kathy's head entirely out of her mother's body. It was the most bizarre thing Beth had ever seen, but she remembered what Nikola said and checked the baby's neck as she gingerly cradled the tiny head. "Hi, sweetheart," Beth breathed. Then, louder: "Her head is out. Her neck is—well, kind of nonexistent, but no cord!"

She grinned excitedly at Sally. "You're almost there, hon!"

Sally grinned back shakily as the pain ebbed, too relieved and overwhelmed to speak. She closed her eyes and gathered herself for what she desperately hoped was the final push, _come on, girl, you've got this, just... one..._ _ **more**_ _...!_ And then she was a champagne bottle and her cork had _popped_ , the feeling of unbelievable _fullness_ flooding out of her in an instant, leaving her with a deep, throbbing ache and flowing warmth, and she had never understood until now just how bittersweet that moment could be, that long-awaited emptiness... and now she was collapsing back against George again, completely drained, sobs welling up, and joy and wonder at having survived was part of it, but mixed with such an awful feeling of loneliness and loss... and then it didn't matter anymore, because Beth was picking Kathy up and bringing her straight to Sally, and Sally was lifting her shirt and cradling her tiny, purple, wrinkled daughter against her chest, just where she should have been all along... and for the first time in months, Time was standing still for all the right reasons.

Beth never remembered exactly how it all happened, the final push, then hastily cleaning the worst of the gooey mess off Kathy... nor did she really want to – it was incredible and not a little nauseating at the same time. But she never forgot how it felt to finally see the baby she'd waited so long for, how it felt to be the first person to hold her, how it felt to put her in Sally's arms. Watching mother and daughter together properly for the first time, she had to wipe away tears, heart full to bursting.

Sally couldn't stop staring at Kathy, tears spilling over as she listened in awe to her daughter's first tiny, fluttering breaths, _all_ of her was tiny, and so _perfect_ , right down to her still-gummy eyelashes... _her_ baby... hers and John's... "Hi, sweetheart..." she whispered, a lump in her throat.

Nikola smiled and blinked back his own tears as he 'heard' Kathy's sleepy response: _...hello, Mama..._

* * *

Ironically, the next few days were the worst that Sally had endured so far. Now that her health couldn't directly affect Kathy's anymore, and with so many willing volunteers to help look after the baby, there was very little to keep her from sliding into lethargy. Her bleeding mercifully lasted only a few days, but realising it had mysteriously stopped early didn't help her find the energy or motivation to get out of bed and wash. If her milk-swollen breasts hadn't been so painful, she might not have even tried to feed Kathy; it took several toe-curling attempts before finally getting the hang of things, making her feel even more useless.

Missing John made everything that much worse, too; each early milestone that her baby reached was one more that her husband wasn't here to see. It wasn't _fair_ , she'd coped with everything Frozen Time could throw at her until now, and every mother-to-be in these parts would have killed to be in her place... but no matter how hard Sally tried, she just couldn't feel anything like how she'd felt holding her daughter for the first time. The magic was gone, leaving her a disillusioned, sleepless wreck. Her breasts and back ached from all the feeding, her legs ached from hours of lying in bed, and her head ached from constantly bursting into tears, inwardly writhing in guilt and self-loathing at not being able to cope like she should, to be a proper mother to her baby, but still barely able to even cope with brushing her own hair, much less deal with more pressing matters of hygiene.

It was George and Beth who finally intervened before the smell in the bedroom could take on a life of its own – they were the only two people Sally would let near her now, anyway – by callously ambushing her during a tearful moment and dragging her out of bed. Paying no attention to her shrieks of outrage, George scooped Sally up, carried her into the ensuite and dumped her in the bath, blood-stained nightdress and all; Beth then kindly but firmly made Sally bathe, dress properly and brush her own hair, before taking charge of Kathy and marching Sally down to the kitchen.

Still seething with resentment at being treated like a baby herself, Sally had the shock of her life when she, not Kathy, was the one to get mobbed by the youngest Irregulars as they entered, Jimmy's face all scrunched up like _he_ was about to cry. Sally blinked hard, then bent down and wrapped her arms around as many of her boys as she could at once. They'd really missed her, bless them... and when she and Beth managed to coax out of Jimmy just why he was so upset, she was appalled.

"Our Guv'nor, mum, 'e 'ad lots o' bad spells jus' loike that," Jimmy sniffed, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Th' doctor used ter get _orful_ worried, 'e did!"

"Oh, Jimmy..." Sally hugged him tightly, the cold ball of shame growing inside her. She should have realised even the youngest boys knew about Sherlock's black days... then Sherlock and John had been taken from them, and then they'd seen _her_ start to go under – that must have been terrifying! "It's okay, sweetheart," she murmured huskily, "I'm not going anywhere, I promise." It would probably take her a while to find her feet again, but it was nice to know that these tough little brats really would care if she wasn't around.

* * *

It had been three years since Beth had held a newborn, her own youngest brother. Little Kathy was just as tiny and just as precious as she remembered her siblings being as babies.

Beth was giving Sally a well-deserved break and taking care of the baby for a few hours. The young mother's spirits were slowly lifting again; it had been a huge relief for Beth when the boys made her laugh for the first time since the birth. Beth had almost cried, grateful that she wasn't going to lose Sally, too. Sally had scared her.

Beth snuggled the baby close, inhaling the sweet, earthy scent of a newborn. Kathy was looking around, studying her surroundings, her puckered lips opening and closing. Beth felt a sudden rush of affection and protectiveness for the little one. It wasn't the first time that had happened to her—it was like falling in love, and she had felt it with her own siblings. But something was different this time, overall. Kathy wasn't her flesh and blood, but she didn't have to be. Kathy was the child of Beth's best friend, and she loved her dearly. And maybe Beth felt extra-protective, given the world around them, given that someone was missing from the baby's life…

Just the 'day' before, Beth had been about to enter the master bedroom when she heard Sally singing softly. Nikola's Serbian lullaby. Beth had tiptoed to the open door and seen the older girl bending over Kathy's cradle, rocking it gently as she sang her baby to sleep. It was a beautiful, heartwarming picture… but someone was missing from it.

Beth had cried then, and she was crying now, just a little bit, though her determination was stronger than ever.

"Just look at you," she murmured to the baby. "You don't really know what's going on, do you? As smart as you are, as much as you understand… you don't know. And that's okay. All you need to know is that you're warm and safe and you have a mommy who loves you. And you have uncles that love you and lots of big brothers to look after you.

"And you have me." Kathy was looking at Beth now, quiet and still, clearly paying attention. "And I'm not going to let anything happen to you. But do you know who you don't have? I don't know if you can tell, but you have a daddy who's not here right now. But we're going to get him soon. We're going to bring him home to you."

She felt the tears coming back again. "It's not fun to grow up without your daddy. I know. And you, little lady, are not going to have to grow up without yours." She kissed the baby. "He's gonna come back home to you, okay? I promise. He's gonna come back home."

* * *

 **Ria:** Whew, that birth scene brought back a few memories! Seriously, you'd swear the baby had grown corners just for the occasion. I didn't want to put Sally through post-natal depression, either, but it is a very real and awful experience for many mothers, even those with plenty of support. As for the idea that mothers forget how much it hurts in order to go through it all again, whoever came up with that rubbish had to be male. We don't forget. Ever.

That being said, mother and baby are now safe and sound, _and_ we're up to the last chapter! *does happy dance*

 **Sky:** So it finally happened! Everybody gather around for a group hug with the mother and baby!

Also, big round of applause to the real mother writing the gritty stuff—Ria! With four kids under her belt, I'd say she's overqualified to write the bulk of the birth scene, and I don't think I've ever seen one more detailed like that. Which was fantastic and also scary (for those of us who are crazy enough to want to bear children someday! ;) ).

Stay tuned for the last chapter (squee!), and please review!


	14. The Girl Who Waited

**==Chapter 14==**

 **The Girl Who Waited**

 _Sometimes beautiful things come into our lives out of nowhere. We can't always understand them, but we have to trust in them. I know you want to question everything, but sometimes it pays to just have a little faith._

– Lauren Kate, Torment

 _The path trembles beneath his feet from the water's thunder, cool mist caressing his face... he's been here so often in his dreams of late, it's almost more real to him than the world outside his prison. As always, he looks to the end of the path, curious yet fearful of who he might see... and this time, it is Beth who stands on the very edge of the precipice, holding a cocked pistol to her own head, eyes brimming with tears as Moriarty advances toward her, murder in his face..._

" _Beth!" His frantic shout is snatched away by the wind and water, he can't move a step to help her... dear God, must he endure this again?_

 _A sudden clatter of stone from above, his head snaps up in surprise, what new devilry is this? Holmes is kneeling on the fateful ledge, features cold and hard as the rock face itself, aiming Moran's cursed air gun at the now struggling pair..._

" _Holmes!"_

 _For an instant he can't breathe, no telling from here which combatant the detective is aiming for... then Holmes turns his head, and gives the frozen doctor below a grin of pure malice, eyes gleaming with unholy delight. "Doctor..."_

" _Holmes_ _ **, no**_ _!" Watson's anguished cry seems to echo above the roar of the falls... and now a ghostly hand is grabbing at his shoulder, trying to pull_ _ **him**_ _over the edge!_

"...Doctor..."

"No!"

"Gawd's sake, Doctor, _wake up!_ "

"What...?" Watson found himself blinking dazedly up into a pinched, grime-covered face, one that he had never thought to see again. "W-Will?" No, it _couldn't_ be, he must still be dreaming...

The strangely solid hallucination grinned, helping a still shaken Watson to sit up slowly. "It's me, sir – Oi mean us, the Irregulars! We're 'ere t' get yew 'ome! Can yew walk?"

As if on cue, Charlie and Kelly appeared in the open doorway, faces lighting up. "Doctor, yer alive!" "Knew we'd foind yer!"

For a brief moment, hope glowed in the doctor's breast, then faded just as swiftly. "Boys, you are a sight for sore eyes... but you have to get out of here!" He could have wept at the thought of giving up a second chance of escape, but a barely-healed arm and half rations since that ordeal had forced him to remain largely inactive – he was in no condition now to run any distance, or hold his own in a fight. "If Moriarty's men find you..."

Charlie laughed gleefully. "Blimey, Doctor, where d'yew think we've been?"

"Place is ours fer a bit, sir!" Kelly chimed in. "They's all sleepin' loike babes!"

Will nodded in satisfaction. "We've been plannin' this for a long time, Doctor. 'S why it took us _this_ long to make it 'appen." The young man jerked his head impatiently at the door. "Now, come on – yew've got a missus at 'ome wot's waitin' for yew."

"...Sally?!" Watson could hardly believe his ears. "Is she all right?"

The boys exchanged conspiratorial grins as they helped Watson to his feet. "Ohhh, is she ever, sir!" Will chuckled. "Now, let's get out of 'ere before the guards wake up."

Watson shook himself, nodding apologetically. "Lead on, lads."

With Charlie and Kelly flanking Watson, Will led the way through a series of windowless corridors, passing the odd unconscious agent en route. Still coming to terms with the realisation that his long confinement had come to an end, Watson simply concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other at first. Just the ability to walk more than a few feet in any direction made him feel lightheaded – or perhaps it was the remains of whatever had been used on the guards, a pungent smell of ether and something else Watson couldn't quite identify still hung in the air.

The boys kept up a slow, steady pace, but the doctor was relieved when they finally reached what looked like a service elevator, letting him sit down to catch his breath. The ride to the surface would have been a lot quicker if they hadn't had to stop at every floor on the way to let more Irregulars on board, every one of them beaming to see Watson safe and sound, pushing their way forward to shake the doctor's hand and welcome him back.

It took a while for a shell-shocked Watson to realise just how crowded the lift was becoming, but as they took off from the last stop before the ground floor, he finally caught Will's eye with a stern look. "Will?"

"Yes, Doctor?"

Watson's eyes narrowed. "Don't play the innocent with me, young man. Do you have any idea how dangerous this was?" This really wasn't the time or place for a lecture, he knew... but it was also the first time in months that he'd been able to speak his mind to anyone else without running the risk of bodily harm.

"Cor blimey, 'course we did! Been livin' on the run or in 'idin' for months now. Beth an' Sally figured, though, that not only did we _'ave_ to rescue yew an' Mr. 'Olmes anyway, but... we needed yew two to fix wot went wrong." Will shrugged as the lift jerked to a halt. "'Fraid I don't understand it much m'self, sir, but they seemed to."

Watson's breath caught. "Beth... she's alive?!"

A ripple of laughter went around the lift; many eager hands helped Watson to rise, steadying him as they headed out again.

"So much so, Doc," Will grinned, "Oi almost feel bad for the Colonel."

"I should have known that monster was lying..." Watson muttered balefully. Had Holmes done better than him, seen through the deception? It would certainly explain how Moriarty knew that his congratulating Moran hadn't been genuine... at least, it hadn't been _then_. Watson could only hope that his escape all these months later would have no ill consequences for the former detective, because however much he might hate himself for it, neither love nor loyalty was going to keep him in that hellhole of a room any longer. He shuddered at the thought – never again...

"Oh." Will had quickly sobered. "Well, she did 'ave _one_ close call, but she came out o' that one wit' no more'n scratches."

"Where is she?" Watson saw with deepening unease that the Irregulars were trading uncertain glances.

"She'll be fine, sir."

Will's tone was anything but reassuring, and Watson paled as a horrible suspicion rapidly grew in his gut. "Will? Where. Is. Beth?"

Will hesitated for a long moment, looking deeply troubled, then sighed, giving in. "She went for Mr. 'Olmes. There weren't enough of us to split ourselves between 'ere and there, not properly."

Watson felt his face turning white, while the rest of him went numb with horror. "Oh, dear God..."

"She figured it would be easier for her to slip in alone an' get 'im out." Will frowned, putting a bracing hand on Watson's good shoulder. "Doctor, she'll be all roight."

" _All right?!_ " Watson exploded – he couldn't believe what he was hearing!

"That woman can take care of 'erself!"

"No... Will, you don't understand..." Watson suddenly faltered – how could he possibly tell these boys about what their beloved 'Guv'nor' had become? "Beth is walking into a death trap!"

"Beth knows wot she's doin', Doctor." Will gave him a sad little smile. "She did tell me she might not be comin' back. She's already there by now. There was no stoppin' 'er before, an' there'd be no stoppin' 'er now."

Watson shook his head, feeling sicker than when Moriarty had shown him the locket. Around him, the boys' jubilant mood had vanished, standing silently, downcast eyes and hunched shoulders somehow more heartbreaking than tears would have been.

"If she 'as to die, sir, she'll make it count–" Will's voice caught, but made himself go on; "I c'n promise you that."

"Make it count..." Watson murmured weakly. _Poor, brave girl..._ Then the doctor finally realised what he must sound like and took a deep breath, blinking hard. "I'm sorry, boys."

Will's voice was rough but kind. "If yew think it's easy for us, Doctor, it's not."

Kelly came up beside Watson and took his arm. "C'mon, sir. Missus Watson is waitin'."

Watson's heart gave a painful leap, shame and grief swiftly overtaken by longing; dreaming of being reunited with Sally had often been all that kept him from completely giving way to despair. "Where is she? You haven't been using Baker Street, I hope?"

The Irish boy's eyes widened. "Cor, sir, no! T'weren't safe, roight from the beginnin', though Missus 'Udson is doin' jus' foine. Missus Watson is in Warwickshire, sir."

Watson nodded, greatly relieved, but was startled a moment later by the clip-clop of horses' hooves and the rumble of wheels. Looking around, he was even more astonished to see that they were no longer inside, but had emerged into a fog-wreathed side street – when had that happened?

He shivered, the bitter cold finally starting to penetrate – living indoors for so long had ill-prepared him for eternal Winter – just as a pair of four-wheelers came rolling up out of the fog, two more Irregulars in the drivers' seats.

"Tha's our ride, Doctor. 'Op in."

Watson was boosted up into the nearest cab, collapsing exhaustedly onto the seat, immensely grateful for the supporting crush and warmth of Irregulars on either side of him as they piled into and on top of both carriages. "Get me home, boys–" he murmured, eyes already beginning to drift closed in spite of his best efforts; "please..."

Will smiled sadly, rapping on the roof. "Yessir."

* * *

The Torchwood Institute's London base was an entire square block of houses, facing four different streets with a mews running in the midst of them, gated up now to avoid any unwanted visitors... Beth wasn't sure how she'd managed to slip in unnoticed before, but this time, she got in as a delivery boy, then melted into the shadows at the nearest opportunity. She headed for the 'front' of the base, the part which housed Moriarty's office. That had to be the centre of operations, and it was her best bet at finding some kind of record of Sherlock's location.

 _It doesn't make sense_ , she thought half an hour later. Sherlock's… room? cell?... was part of the front row, the nicest section of the base. After Moran's gloating, she had been expecting a prison cell. It didn't make sense…

She reached the right door at last, however, and pulled out her hairpins, setting to work on the lock. _Hurry, someone could be along at any second, even Moriarty, hurry, open, you stupid lock, just open, please_ … The lock clicked, the knob turned, and she ducked inside, shutting the door behind her and slumping against it, breathless in relief. _Made it_.

 _He_ was standing at the other end of the room, staring back at her, paler and thinner than she remembered, but very much alive and whole. Moran had been lying… but… why? Just to cause her pain? _It's not as if the bastard wasn't sadistic enough_. She managed a faint smile, confused—because what the zed was he doing, looking so well?—but happy. "Hi."

Sherlock Holmes recovered, nodding calmly, not smiling back. "Beth. I suspected the rumours of your death had been exaggerated."

She frowned. "My dea—oh." She sighed: the lie, it seemed, had gone both ways. "Oh, zed, Moran." She shivered involuntarily, her hand rising to touch the scar on her throat, habits she had not lost in the months since the old soldier's attack. Her frown faded to a smile that wobbled a bit. "Definitely exaggerated, yeah…"

He smiled in return this time, though the expression was entirely mirthless, grey eyes scrutinising her scar. "Indeed. If Moran had truly murdered you, he would doubtless have sent back more definitive proof than a mere trinket."

"Yeah." _A human heart_ … She shivered again, forcefully pushing those memories back—now was not the time to lose it!—and shook her head. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry—I wanted to get here so much sooner…"

He arched an eyebrow. "How flattering. But to what end, may I ask?"

She frowned again, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Something was wrong with this picture, and she didn't know what it was, but it made her shoulders tense and her chest clench. She was afraid, and she didn't even know why. "To… get you out… The Irregulars have Dr. Watson under wraps—and I came for you."

He gave her an odd look, then his expression cleared. "Then I must thank you, my dear, for your touching concern—but it is entirely unnecessary, I assure you."

She blinked, certain she'd heard that wrong. "…what? Why? Sherlock, what's going on?"

"You seem to be labouring under a strong misapprehension, my dear. Did Moran convince you that I was here against my will?"

 _And screaming my name, tortured and dying…_ "Maybe it was seeing you and Moriarty when everything first went to hell!"

He nodded reasonably. "True, not the most favourable of first impressions. But circumstances have since altered."

There was no churning in her stomach, only a feeling that she wanted to cry and didn't know how to do it at this point in time. The Great Detective _sounded_ like the Napoleon of Crime had… cold and calculating… She rubbed her arms slowly to ward off the chill she suddenly felt.

"My apologies for any upset this misunderstanding may have caused you—but now that you are aware of the true situation, I strongly advise you to leave."

She stepped back, staring at him as if… as if she'd never seen him before. She hadn't, really—even in Sherlock's worst moments, she had seen him angry, jealous, smug, and human, human, _human_. She wasn't certain that this… _stranger…_ before her was even that. Sherlock Holmes always had some spark of feeling in those large grey eyes, at the corners of his mouth, even in the way he held himself. The man before her now was utterly impassive, the grey eyes that she loved so much completely devoid of emotion.

"Sherlock… you can't… you can't mean what I think you do. Please, you can't…"

He gave her an all-too-familiar raise of his eyebrow. "Can I not?"

"What has he _done_ to you?"

"Moriarty? Nothing I have not allowed him to, Miss Lestrade." She flinched—she'd always hated hearing him use her title before, and now… "The choice to learn from a new teacher was mine, and one that was made willingly."

She shook her head slowly. _Willingly_? The Sherlock Holmes who'd held her together at her best friend's death would never have willingly sided with one of the most evil men in history—not even the Sherlock Holmes who'd tried to control her, who'd also watched in helpless horror as she was about to be shot before his eyes. "No… No, Sherlock Holmes, you stop this—you stop this now! This is wrong—it's all wrong! Please… _please_ come back with me. I can't… I can't…"

He turned away to face the window, clasping his hands behind him. "That is no longer my concern, Miss Lestrade. Your decision to come here was a foolish one, and one which may very well cost you your life if you remain here any longer."

Somewhere deep in her chest, anger was trying to ignite. But the fuel was lost in her horror. "I don't _care_. Sherlock, it wasn't about the case! It was never about the case! It was about you and John—what happened was never supposed to!"

He turned back to her, frowning deeply. "I beg your pardon?"

"Time freezing! It wasn't about the case, because I got the plans back to Woolwich and nothing happened." He watched her intently, definitely listening. "The constant isn't the cases, Sherlock—it's you and John! It's the two of you being these… incredible best friends… this friendship that's supposed to last at least four decades…"

He shook his head. "Then what you hope to achieve, my dear, is still a lost cause."

"Then both of you are idiots," she returned sharply. "And at this point, I don't bloody well care if I have to knock you out and carry you on my shoulders, because I'm not leaving without you."

He sighed in frustration. "A truly heroic gesture, my dear, but ultimately futile." More softly: "Beth… do not expend your life or your pity upon one who neither needs nor wishes for it. Leave now, while you still can."

The change of tone hurt more than anything else he'd said thus far—too much like the man she'd fallen in love with… She shook her head mutely, not trusting herself to speak.

"Dr. Watson would no doubt be glad of any efforts you were to make on his behalf—but the last time he and I spoke together, he made it very clear that he would have nothing further to do with me."

She laughed bitterly, tears springing out of nowhere and escaping down her cheeks. "I think that Mrs. Watson will have something to say about that." Quite a lot of somethings, actually—Beth and Sally had compared notes several times on what they would tell Sherlock and John when they got the chance. "Sherlock," Beth murmured, "you should see the baby."

At last he froze, staring at her, very much speechless.

"Sally was pregnant when… everything went wrong. Katherine Watson was born a couple of weeks ago…" Beth smiled softly. "And she is the most precious thing. Nikola says she's very special…"

He closed his eyes as if solving something for himself at last, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth. She wanted to sob, because she would certainly give anything right now to make that expression last, to hold on to that part of him that was still there, still _him_ …

"Well, well," he murmured. He opened his eyes again, head tilting. "And Tesla is here also, you say?" He nodded. "Pray give him and Mr. Westinghouse my… regrets."

"Tell them yourself," she said in as steady a tone as she could manage: "I'm not your messenger boy." She stepped towards him, holding out her hand. She would follow through on her threat to knock him out if she had to, and right now, she wasn't seeing any other way in which this scene ended remotely well.

He arched an eyebrow, stance shifting subtly, but shifting all the same, the way he had when he'd gone from fending off Rob Greene's wild blows to launching an attack. He _did_ know some martial arts, he'd done boxing, he'd done fencing and singlestick… so the odds were _really_ stacked against her… "I strongly advise you not to force this issue, Miss Lestrade." _Not a chance_. "I do not wish you harm, but neither will I tamely submit to your… persuasions." His tone turned arctic. "Get out."

She flinched but didn't otherwise move forward or back, shaking her head. "He's a monster," she said softly. _You thought so once, too, just a few years ago. You were ready to_ _ **die**_ _to stop him_. "How could you _ever_ want to be _like_ him?"

He sighed wearily. "What do you want, Miss Lestrade? Do you wish me to break down in tears, give you a sobbing, heartfelt confession of how my will was crushed beneath the heel of my mortal enemy? To be perfectly honest, my dear… I was intrigued." He chuckled mirthlessly. "My insatiable curiosity—no doubt it will be my undoing sooner or later…"

Her head spun and her stomach swam. "Intrigued…?" She closed her eyes, trying to ground herself. "What. The. _Hell_ , Sherlock? You…" Her tone turned faintly accusing. "Who _are_ you?" Not Sherlock Holmes. Barely even _human_ …

He exhaled impatiently through his nose. "That is precisely what I have been trying to make clear to you, my dear: that Sherlock Holmes no longer exists."

She shook her head, vision blurring again. "He can't be. Too many people need him." She slowly hugged herself and breathed, " _I_ need him."

"Then I suggest you relay your message to his shade, wherever it may roam, and cease to bore me with your melodramatic sentiments."

She flinched back. "His shade? His 'shade' is right in there—" she pointed at his chest—"somewhere inside that heart that obviously hasn't been used in a long time…"

"Believe what you will, Miss Lestrade… it is of no matter to me, any more than your regard for the man you thought you knew."

She flinched again, eyes closing. "Then what _does_ matter to you?" she whispered, eyes opening again. "The fact that because you're oh-so-aloof-and-alone, you're not going to be hurt anymore by the people you love? You're not going to see them get hurt or die?

He raised an eyebrow. "That was the whole point of Moriarty's taking me under his wing, so to speak—the man wished for a protégé, an equal he could mould into a facsimile of himself." He bowed, definitely in a mocking manner. "As you can see, he was rather successful."

She stared at him, chest constricting, eyes wide. Of all the things she had ever have imagined Sherlock Holmes being at his worst, _indifferent_ had never been one of them. "Right, he completely destroyed the Holmes family, then! Sherlock, _Mycroft is dead_."

* * *

 _Mycroft_... _dead_...

The words seemed to echo around Holmes's head, every other thought crumbling to ash as he stared at Beth, frozen to the spot, cold horror coursing through him. His brother... no, that was... _no_... no, it _couldn't_ be... _Mycroft_ couldn't... Moriarty would _never_... even when Holmes had been on the verge of destroying the Professor's empire, he hadn't so much as hinted... and Holmes hadn't even considered... _ah,_ _but you didn't_ _ **want**_ _to believe him expendable, did you?_ the dark thought hissed as it uncoiled from the back of his mind, _you could only take one with you, you didn't want to have to choose..._

If anyone else had told him, Holmes would have refused to believe... and how he wished he could do so now! But even if Beth had not risked her own life in delivering the news, he knew that this girl, for all her faults, had _never_ lied to him, had always spoken true, no matter how terrible the truth might be...

"I'm sorry..."

Holmes barely heard the words, mind still reeling, he hadn't felt half as sick when he'd thought that Beth... He turned away, finding the nearest chair purely by instinct, and sat down heavily, staring unseeing at the floor. "How...?" he managed to croak, the rest of the question stuck fast in his throat.

He couldn't keep from flinching as her hands gently gripped his shoulders. "Moran," came her quiet answer, and Holmes felt her involuntary shudder. "It was quick. He... he never felt any pain..."

Was that her shudder just then or his? Maybe it was both, he couldn't tell... and then his eyes widened, staring back up at Beth as the significance of her words sank in – had she been _there_ when... when it happened?!

Beth bit her lip, her expression all the answer he needed. "I was there to get help. Moran... showed up..." Her voice became a whisper. "No warning..." She leaned down and slowly, lightly wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Holmes tensed at the embrace, pulled back out of her arms – he'd allowed no one to touch him since Locksley's... since leaving Nottingham. He closed his eyes, taking a few deep, calming breaths. Steady, steady... all would be well with him soon enough... _it had to be_...

"Thank you, Beth," he said softly, finally opening his eyes and rising to his feet. "And now you must leave." Thanks to Beth's timely arrival, he now knew there would never be a better moment to carry out his plans – once the girl had departed, of course. It would have been hard enough for her to witness the death of one brother...

Beth had stepped back when he pulled away, looking understandably on edge, but answered him evenly enough: "Not without you. Either you come or I stay – and I don't care whether you help to hide me or not, cause I honestly don't think you have it in you to give me away."

Holmes shook his head, sighing. "Beth..." He hadn't wanted to tell her, better that she should believe she had a chance. "They already know you're here. The only question was whether Moriarty would allow you to leave again – and even if he did, do you truly believe he'd allow me to go with you?"

"Sherlock..." Beth's sigh was equally weary. "Why do you think I'm alone?" She shook her head, chin jutting at a very familiar angle. "And it's worth a try. He may very well be omniscient, but he's _not_ omnipotent." She held out her hand to him, calm expression belied by the pleading in her eyes. " _Please_..."

Oh dear God, that Look... he had all but forgotten... _Beth's eyes filling with tears, face pale as Moran placed the gun against her head..._ " _Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry..."_ _Forgive me, Elizabeth..._ Holmes shook his head slightly, trying in vain to banish the whispering memory, his chest strangely tight. No one needed him anymore, Beth least of all, she should walk away now and leave him to his chosen fate... but the tilt of her chin was telling him succinctly just how likely that was.

He shook his head again, unable to keep the corners of his mouth from lifting. She had to know what she was proposing was suicide in itself... and yet... all at once, the notion of facing such impossible odds seemed a far more interesting end than choking out his last breath in a pool of his own vomit. At the very least, he would be in better company... "I must," he murmured wonderingly, "be out of my mind..."

Beth's eyes widened slightly – she clearly hadn't been expecting quite that reaction. Eyebrows raised, she murmured back, "Well, I already knew you were."

He was surprised into a huff of silent laughter... and equally surprising was the realisation that this was the first time he had done so in... good Lord, he couldn't even remember... "And evidently, I am not the only one. I don't suppose you have any clear idea as to how the two of us are to make our grand exit?"

She tilted her head, looking suddenly sheepish. "A few ideas. 'Course, if you have any yourself, I'm all ears."

Holmes sighed. "Yes, actually. In keeping with the spirit of this mad enterprise, I would suggest the bold approach... via the front door."

Beth stared. "...wait, what? Are you _actually_ insane?"

"Well, trying to get away unseen would be rather pointless." He looked at her gravely, voice becoming deadly serious as the import of what they were about to do sank in deeper. "Beth... make no mistake: James Moriarty is now a very different man to the cold, calculating machine you have read of. Our only hope of escape lies in audacity, and his being in the right humour to appreciate it." A chance as thin as breath on glass, and if they failed... there was really no guarantee that death would be mercifully swift, or even forthcoming.

Beth shivered visibly, but then squared her shoulders and raised her chin. "Okay, then."

Holmes nodded – he felt certain that she remembered her first encounter with Moriarty with as little pleasure as he did – and after a moment's consideration, offered her his arm. Good form must be observed, after all, even in such precarious circumstances as these; besides, the more united an appearance they could present, the better.

Beth looked at his proffered arm, expression curiously unreadable, then back up at him... then finally slipped her arm around his, taking a deep breath. "Showtime?"

Holmes did his best not to tense, reminding himself sternly that he had chosen this gesture – in any case, the warmth of her arm around his wasn't wholly disagreeable, and he needn't endure it for long. "Indeed," he answered as lightly as he could manage, "onwards and upwards."

* * *

Beth hoped that she wasn't trembling as she stepped back out into the corridor with Sherlock. As much as she would have liked to kill Moriarty herself for everything he had done, she had also hoped never to have to face him again, much less as they were doing now, in the den of the dragon. And with a strange new version of Sherlock Holmes, the most recent of several versions she'd known since she'd first met him—known and yet hardly known any one of them at all. And now she had to trust _this_ one with her life... but he was still _Sherlock_ : his reaction to Mycroft's death had proved that.

Further down the hall, several men rounded a corner, Moriarty himself at the head. The Professor stopped short, face expressionless but for his cold eyes, hard and piercing as ice. "Good evening, Holmes, Miss Lestrade," he said evenly. Shivers running down her spine, Beth fought the urge to move behind Sherlock—it was always when the bad guys spoke calmly in the face of something going wrong that they were the most dangerous, and she was positive Moriarty was no exception.

Holmes nodded, as calmly he could manage – he hadn't considered until this moment what his own reaction would be on seeing Moriarty again, and the sudden burning fury that reared up in his breast was more of a shock than he was prepared to admit. _His brother's_ _murderer_... No, that wasn't important, not now! He _must_ master himself, move beyond the anger, no better time to use what he had learned from his mentor... and one thing Moriarty probably hadn't realised he had taught Holmes was how to read his own tells. Anger was there in the other man's eyes, true, but it was the cold kind, allowing room for other emotions, such as intrigue... "Moriarty – what kept you, my dear sir? You almost missed wishing us 'Bon voyage'."

"My apologies," Moriarty answered coolly. "I was not aware that you were... leaving..."

Holmes gave him a tight, apologetic smile. "Forgive me for not informing you of my intentions, Professor – it was quite the last-minute decision. Rest assured that I have your address, should I feel the need to send a postcard. Now, if you would be so kind?"

Moriarty's voice was velvet over steel. "No, I rather think not." He nodded towards Beth, and the guards' weapons all came up to cover her.

Beth tightened her hold on Sherlock, eyes flashing. _Not now, not now, please not now_ _..._

"On the contrary, my dear sir," Holmes replied, just as softly, "I rather think you will – after all, a man of your intelligence always acts in his own best interests."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed, the purr gone from his voice, leaving only the claws. "Explain."

"To put it quite simply, Moriarty, it is only once you have –" Holmes inclined his head in mock humility, "granted me my liberty that our game can at last begin." He felt like a complete idiot for not seeing the truth months earlier: all those years of careful grooming from childhood... Moriarty could not merely wish for Holmes to be his heir, or even his equal. World conquest with no serious opposition – for someone of Moriarty's intellect, where would be the pleasure in that? The man wanted – no, _needed_ – a worthy adversary, and if Holmes must now openly offer to play the part once more, then so be it.

Moriarty tilted his head contemplatively, then turned his arctic gaze to Beth. She held it defiantly for a few moments, but it felt as though his eyes were penetrating her straight to her soul... and being psychic, he might have. She dropped her eyes, shivering.

"I will not deny that it is so," the Professor continued softly. Beth looked back up, feeling strangely calmer... Then she realised: Moriarty had been commanding intense loyalty from massive organisations for at least _sixty years_ —he had mastered the art of controlling a situation with his presence and his voice. His charisma alone was disarming, and though she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this man was _evil_ , she couldn't help thinking him darkly handsome.

The soothingly soft voice continued. "However, surely you can appreciate that the stakes are astronomical, and one false move would end more than the game... Which is why the girl must remain, whether or not you leave."

Holmes shook his head, sighing, allowing his genuine disappointment to show on his face – for the briefest of moments, he had dared to hope... "Ever the mathematician... I had thought you to be more of a gamester than that, my dear sir." His tone turned condescending. "However, perhaps you are right. One ought not to play for higher stakes if one cannot abide the greater risk. Such a pity."

Arm still linked with Beth's, he began turning as if to go back the way they'd come. "I was mildly curious as to whether you could have beaten me..." He knew he could have used a far more subtle approach, but for some reason, the thought of continuing to stand there, acting as Moriarty's _mirror_ , was suddenly too much; whatever fate awaited either of them, Holmes would meet it as his own man.

Moriarty sighed, calling after Sherlock in much the same tone as a put-upon parent. "Sherlock Holmes, you are asking me to make one of the riskiest and, in all likelihood, most idiotic decisions of my life, and you are doing so in the most transparent, childish way possible. If you wish to have your way in this, you are going to have to do better than that."

Sherlock turned back around, and Beth with him. She saw him open his mouth to speak but by then she was already blurting out the thought at the front of her mind. "But he's right."

Moriarty returned his attention to her, raising an eyebrow. She faltered but pressed forward. "I'm not going to pretend I understand at all what's going on between the two of you, but you've been calling the shots since the beginning. You set up this entire... 'game'... and no one else has the slightest chance of winning with things as they are now. So if you _do_ want a real challenge, you _can't_ have total control."

Holmes had been taken thoroughly aback by Beth's unexpected contribution, anything _he_ might have been about to say completely forgotten. And, to his astonishment, Moriarty was now looking at Beth far more thoughtfully than he had looked at Holmes thus far.

A tingle of unease ran the length of the detective's spine at the Professor's murmur, "So full of potential..." Then Moriarty shook his head slightly, eyes filled with a grudging admiration. "You, at least, Miss Lestrade, deserve a chance. You have been clever, you have been steadfast, and you have a knack for survival." He favoured Beth with a faint smile. "Go, and take your detective. You have twenty-four hours."

Beth stared—had she heard that right? She couldn't have! But Moriarty's benevolent expression and Sherlock's dumbfounded one said otherwise. She opened her mouth to reply, but all that came out was a small and inane "thank you"—and for once, she was too shocked to care.

Holmes could scarcely believe Moriarty's sudden turnaround himself – but there was no mistaking the man's sincerity, whatever his motives might be, and if the Professor was in the mood to be generous, Holmes certainly wasn't about to give him time to change his mind! He bowed, bestowing on Moriarty a cold, hard smile of his own – 'Beth's detective', indeed! "Then we shall bid you 'au revoir', my dear sir. Do keep in touch till then."

Moriarty returned the bow graciously, eyes gleaming with emotions that even Holmes couldn't read. Wordlessly, the detective offered Beth his arm again, continuing on down the hall with her and around the corner; even once they were out of sight, he took care to keep the same steady pace, knowing full well their every movement was probably being watched. His teeth were still on edge from the look that Moriarty had given Beth just now, unnervingly similar to how the Professor had looked at him on their first encounter at Baker Street... and after all these months, Holmes had no reason to be any less wary of his... _former_ mentor smiling.

* * *

Moran strode up to Moriarty, fists clenched as he fought to keep his roiling fury in check. "Professor..." he grated out, voice made low to keep it steady, "did my eyes deceive me, or did I actually see Holmes and the girl leaving the Institute just now, bold as brass, without so much as a _finger_ being lifted to stop them?!"

Moriarty turned slightly towards Moran, still calculating and plotting this new future as he had done since he'd decided to allow Elizabeth Lestrade her head. "Your eyes did not deceive you, Colonel," the Professor said calmly. A hint of reluctant admiration re-entered his voice: Elizabeth had managed to stay alive this long, had slipped into Torchwood _twice_ without being caught in the act itself, and had somehow persuaded the apathetic Great Detective to action and escape. "The girl is very clever."

Moran raised his eyebrows, resisting his first impulse to sneer openly. "Her only admirable quality, Professor?" And Moriarty had lectured _him_ for having a one-track mind... but despite his extraordinary gifts, the Professor was only human, after all.

Moriarty smiled slightly, shaking his head—Moran ought to know by now that Moriarty cared nothing for physical attraction, beyond how it could profit him. "Her audacity and perseverance are also admirable, wouldn't you say?"

Moran's jaw tightened at the obvious jibe, not appreciating the reminder of his failed missions. "Quite so, sir." An evil gleam appeared in his eye as his thoughts turned to their last remaining 'guest'. "If only the good doctor could have been here to bid them farewell..." The guards had just informed Moran that Watson had recently begun calling the name 'Sally' in his sleep – given the second set of woman's prints that he'd found while searching Camden House, it would definitely be worth the Colonel's time to pay him another visit.

"Indeed," Moriarty mused. "One almost wonders..." Had the girl planned to rescue Watson at all, or had she been focused solely on the object of her obvious infatuation?

He felt rather than saw a junior agent approach—the boy was nervous, nearly to the point of losing control of certain bodily functions. Moriarty turned towards him. "Begging your pardon, Director, I'm sorry to intrude, but, well…" The young man shifted uncomfortably. "It's a matter of some urgency."

Good heavens, what could possibly be so urgent? Had their Majesties decided to officially declare war on Germany after all? "What is it? "

"Well, I, er, don't rightly know all the details, sir... but the, ah, the long and the short of it is..." The agent cringed. "...that Dr. Watson... has escaped from custody... "

Moriarty stared at him for a moment, frozen, certain he had heard wrong. But there was no room for doubt in the agent's mind—Elizabeth had played Moriarty thoroughly for a fool. While she had been busy here, no doubt the Baker Street Irregulars had rescued their precious doctor. The Professor swiftly regained his composure and managed an even tone: "Very well. Dismissed. "

Wide-eyed himself at the news, Moran was already uneasily wondering how discreetly he could make his own exit; the Professor had never taken kindly to bad news, but lately his more acute displeasure had a tendency to fall on innocent bystanders.

Moriarty turned back to Moran, still maintaining his composure against the urge to vent his frustration. "Well, well, Colonel, it would seem that I have now been bested by a child, as well." But this turn of events only meant that the girl was now a worthier opponent than Holmes himself had been since 1891...

Moran warily noted the look of growing avarice in Moriarty's eyes, but hummed in what he hoped was a commiserating tone. "A clever girl, indeed, sir. Such a pity she can't be allowed to live." He highly doubted the Professor had forgotten that little detail... but then why in Heaven's name had he let the pair escape?

Moriarty continued softly: "But if she could… if our own technology could keep her safely alive... "

A leering grin began to spread across Moran's face. "A most intriguing notion, Professor. I'm sure she and her detective would be deeply appreciative if you were to succeed."

Moriarty smiled in return. "I am not so sure. But it would be such a _waste_ at this point to kill her, now that she has proven herself to possess great potential. "

Moran arched a curious eyebrow, battling his rising disappointment. It was beginning to look as if Moriarty had his eye on a new pupil – which meant she'd be off limits to anyone else who might have an interest...

Moriarty arched an eyebrow in return, knowing _exactly_ what Moran was thinking, even without his telepathy. "How would you describe the girl, Moran, if you can expand your vision past the physical realm? "

Moran shrugged, lips pursed thoughtfully. "I believe the first word that springs to mind, sir, is 'passionate'. If you'll pardon my saying so, Professor, Holmes has always seen emotion as his enemy; the girl sees it as her ally, aiming to channel rather than suppress it."

Moriarty's eyes gleamed, pleased with his lieutenant's insight. "Exactly so. I intend to harness that passion." Sherlock Holmes had proven himself a failed experiment—Moriarty doubted that he would have another chance to reshape the Great Detective. But the girl—so young, so clever, so vulnerable... she could be molded, sculpted... her affection, faith, and trust twisted till she depended upon no one but her mentor.

Moran grinned. "With your former protégé looking on, I gather?" The rest of eternity promised to be _most_ diverting.

Professor Moriarty smiled in anticipation. Holmes clearly felt something for the girl—taking his last unspoiled relationship from him would be a pleasure. "Indeed."

 **To Be Continued...**

 **in Episode Twelve: Every Good Fairytale**

* * *

 **Ria:** *evil grin* So, did anyone forget this was only part two of four? Still plenty of action and angst to come, we promise! And what's been happening to the Doctor all this time, I hear you ask? Stay tuned for our very next TARDISode!

 **Sky:** Okay, so originally, this chapter ended _very_ differently, which we'll explain later. For now, let's just say that even after a massive rewrite of the original finale, this chapter remained the same. Then, last summer, I told Ria that I'd been wondering what would happen if we changed the outcome of the chapter. We decided to find out, and thus the next episode up came about and the second massive rewrite was born!

And this chapter _was_ an emotional rollercoaster, wasn't it? *hugs Watson, Will, Beth, and Holmes* But at least, even if Beth didn't get exactly what she was looking for, things are still looking up compared to the end of last episode!


End file.
